


The Northrend Chronicles

by Loremaster_Loryn



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Argent Tournament, Body Horror, Dalaran, F/F, F/M, Follows Northrend Quest lines, Gen, Icecrown Citadel, M/M, Multi, Naxxramas, Northrend Campaign, Wrath of the Lich King, Wrathgate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-16 15:36:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 75
Words: 311,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1352734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loremaster_Loryn/pseuds/Loremaster_Loryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Waking up a Death Knight, she can't remember Turning, and yet at the height of Arthas' reign she must fight with the Argent Crusade against the deadliest enemy of their times. Traversing Northrend, will she find that The Lich King is the Ultimate Evil, or as her memories return and past uncovered, will she find that the one she needs to be afraid of most is in fact her own being?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue- The Transformation

I was so powerless to halt the oncoming darkness- it moved at a painfully slow pace, almost as if it was made of lead. Rattling my cage bars did nothing. Screaming for help did nothing. Frantically searching for anyone that could help me did lead me to see that the fight had turned into an ambush- Mort and Edmund were surrounded, and outnumbered, by bodies. Some were still; others were extremely animate- and dangerous. The darkness was only a few feet away now, still hell-bent on its path to my soul. The warlock was laughing throughout his incantation. I was crying, I was defeated.

"CERSAE!'' A voice cried. Snapping my head up, I saw Edmund jumping over a corpse, running as fast as he could in my direction. _He won't make it, he can't_. That darkness will have one of us and I'm going to make sure it's me. He was so fast- damn his long legs! I made my decision. Doing the most courageous and stupidest thing in my young life I cried for him to stop. It surprised him enough to make him hesitate in his running. A brief falter on his behalf changed the course of my entire life. I never blamed him for it. That split second was all I needed. The darkness folded through the cage bars, I could see nothing around it except the Chaos of its centre; The Evil that it beheld.

And it touched my heart.

First there was the pain. It wasn't a physical pain initially, but it manifested into that. My bones stiffened, my nerves were shot through, my blood ceased to flow. Air refused to enter my lungs no matter how much I gasped. My muscles refused to respond- I collapsed and lay there, unable to writhe in my own torment. Unable to scream. Unable to weep. Unable to die. Blackness clouded my vision, non-existent knives clawed at my skin, rot infested my senses and the last thing I heard were voices calling -for me, I think. I could feel each individual organ die- each desperately trying to continue working- to cling onto some last semblance of life that had been snuffed out. And then my heart took its last beat.

My brain died, but not my mind. Not my consciousness. They were very much intact, but only for a short time. I was aware, yet unaware, of everything around me. A dream state of anguish, a nightmare of being out of my own control. I was numb but locked all feeling away. Emotion was suppressed, yet not absent. Every grief and misery, all of the regret and remorse I felt magnified, each distinguishable to the point all of it choked and consumed me. I could not remember _happy_.

Time was non-existent. The tortuous agony wasn't limited to my body- it was of my very soul. I was being twain in all directions, the darkness threatening to encroach on me, to spill over. I went insane, of that I have no doubt, or drew so close the edge that sanity and insanity were indistinguishable. Maybe I crossed over many times, I don't know. No mortal could- should- withstand it. Death was welcomed whenever I sought it, yet It always evaded me. This frustration fuelled me further. I didn't cry, I couldn't. I had to fight, I had to push it away, I will _not_ let it…take…me…

And then it stopped. The agony, the crushing, the torture- lifted.

Just. Like. That.

I blinked. My vision swam as it reconnected with my consciousness. I felt- no, I _sensed_ that I was dizzy. My faculties came to, I could barely believe this. Sour tasted on my tongue, foul filled my nostrils. Weight coursed throughout my being, noise echoed in my head. My revelation was cut short as the images I was seeing began to make sense.

There was a body on the ground in front of me. A man.

Blood dripped from my swo- my sword? It was in my hand. I looked to my other- it held its companion, also stained with red. I dropped them, stumbling backwards, my feet heavy. Plate- _plate?_ -boots met my gaze- what was going on?! Was I even … me? I twisted my neck to view the rest of my 'body', if it was indeed mine. I was armour-clad in dark iron. No, _no!_ This is not me! I have to get out of this- I clawed at my- this armour, in a vague attempt to tear it from my body. Failing at this, my-no, this _body's_ \- seemingly trained hands found leather straps and shakingly undid them. I threw each piece to the ground in disgust until nothing was left apart from my padding. My nightmare had not ended it had seemed. I panicked. Not knowing what else to do- I ran.

And ran. The body felt so foreign to me, so new. Stumbling like a child I travelled across- well, I don't know where. I ignored my environment. Not knowing where I was going. I didn't register calls or cries, I tore through rotted plant life, unaware of the blood dripping off of my body. Tripping over a dead branch left me face to face with a ghost- no, not a ghost. It was mirroring my movement. A _reflection._ Where I unconsciously expected dark, long hair, limp, lifeless … _grey_ hung in its wake. Healthy cheeks and a small mouth were now gaunt, sick and deathly, lips trembling. Brown eyes, wide and observant were no more- bright blue and frightened bore back into my own. I was no longer a girl, freshly turned eighteen springs. I was a nightmare.

_This is not ME!_

I eventually found peace from this un-reality when darkness found _me_. Laying in a pile of leaves, dead leaves, my eyesight, newly gained, started to blur. The physical act of _living,_ if that was what I was indeed doing, felt laboured and I began to feel death at my door, finally answering my call. I closed my eyes. Some organised noise…voices muffled their way into my subconscious.

I welcomed oblivion once more.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jumping on the bandwagon and reposting this over on Ao3.
> 
> Disclaimer- I do not own World of Warcraft nor Warcraft, I am simply using the beautiful world to put into bloom my brainchild.  
> Most characters are my own original and if not, then I have asked for specific permission from the player to use theirs in my story.
> 
> I do rely on The Reader having some knowledge of the game, particularly, as you may have guessed, Northrend. Zones, Major NPCs, and even some dungeons and raids for their layout and even a tiny bit of lore are assumed to be familiar. I try not to spend too much time overall on the trivia but if my characters need to know something they already don't- then they'll _have_ to find out; even if we know it.
> 
> Brace yourselves, this is a long, _long_ haul.


	2. The First Day

_The day of the Battle for Light's Hope Chapel- the afternoon._

"Yes Sir, she's been quiet this whole time, not muttering so much as a sound. It's, well, it's highly unnerving, Sir." The report given by the guard on the captive was certainly a strange one. Plate clanked as they walked uphill.

"That's not the only thing…" muttered his companion. Indeed, the few that had seen her had certainly made comment about her appearance. It wasn't long before it was required that he be the one to interrogate her. The crowd of three walked up the stairs to the stone chapel, Acherus loomed overhead, a constant reminder of the events that transpired only a few hours ago.

The wooden doors were parted, revealing a dimly lit area, pews disregarded to the side and an old podium lying on the floor. A hastily built cage stood in the centre. It seemed spacious given it only contained one occupant, and as the three drew closer, it became apparent why she was on her own. There was no mistaking the sickly pallor and white, even if muck-ridden, hair, nor could it be missed that after a few seconds of observation, the tell-tale signs of life were missing- she was not breathing. This was a Death Knight.

She had given no indication that she had received company, staring bleakly downcast at the dirty floor garbed in little more than leg padding and a dirty, and quite frankly oversized, shirt. The guard on the left shifted slightly beside them. His discomfort was apparent and the Knight-Captain could understand why. Emitting no minute movement or sounds gave the impression of a lifeless doll, but given that the guards present had been among those to find the girl crying out and writhing in the mud far from the battlefield earlier on, it was evident why this stark contrast would be unnerving.

"Thank you, men, I will take it from here." She didn't move. He dismissed his companions out of sheer sympathy for their nerves. Everyone was still on edge following earlier today and the new truce between the Argent Dawn and newly founded 'Knights of the Ebon Blade' was still in question. It would take more than a couple of speeches to convince everyone of newly placed loyalties and this Death Knight would be no exception. Having _their kind_ around them was bound to put them at unrest given they were battling the very same soldiers only this morning. Hearing the doors close, he crouched down, armour creaking, reaching her eye level. She sat to the back of the cage, knees drawn up and face barely visible under a curtain of dirty white hair. Leaves and dried mud clung to the dire strands.

"I am Captain Firesworn, representative of the Argent Dawn to speak with you about your loyalties." She said nothing. He wasn't even sure she could hear him. "Will you speak and defend yourself from execution?" A thinly veiled threat to coax a reaction. The Knights who had pulled away from Arthas each made a show about being broken free from his will and declared loyalty to Morgraine. The elf wished to see if she would do the same under duress. No executions had taken place, chaos was being controlled following the battle and alliances forged between us and the new faction, however, any still claiming fealty to the Lich King would certainly not live long around here. The death knights knew this.

Still she did nothing. It daunted him slightly, who, while he may not admit it, was still shaken from the morning. He couldn't afford to be cowed by this. Standing up he quietly drew his sword, holding it briefly, the weight a comfort in his scarred hands. With one swift movement he banged it against the cage bars, the clanging echoing off of the stone walls in protest. The woman didn't even flinch. Was she even alive? Suppressing a sigh of exhaustion, he sheathed his blade and moved to unlock the cage. If she was waiting for a chance to escape, this would be that time. The lack of reaction, however small, was enough to prove that she was either dead, or unable to respond in a fashion that would grant her the strength to attempt an escape. He opened the cage door.

After a minute of no movement, he entered and ungraciously swept her up to standing by way of grabbing her upper arms, his dirt-caked armour groaning at the movements. She held her weight, proving she was indeed 'alive' but her head remained bowed. She was smaller and thicker than he expected for an elf, perhaps reaching chest height on himself. A quick sweep of her body revealed no obvious wounds or injuries. After a small shake and loudly talking in her direction, he concluded that mentally, she wasn't there. A shame.

Stepping backwards, he released her and to his surprise and relief, she didn't slump back into a pile on the floor. Her stature sagged but no other movement took place. In all of his time on the battlefield he had never quite seen a reaction like it. Shock, yes, terror, naturally, denial, practically a given, but this? This was something entirely different, and he had no idea what to do. Backing out of the cage, he locked the door and retreated from the church. It wasn't until he was outside that he realised just how cold it had been in there, and given that this was the height of summer, even the inside of the building shouldn't have felt so frigid.

Walking to the newly-erected healers' tents he passed a number of injuries and near-fatalities. The number of wounded was too many to fit into the make shift infirmary and the already-tired healers had to make do fixing and bandaging outside with them. Only the severely wounded were treated within, such was the organisation of the remedial team. A few people nodded in his direction, his higher rank and reputation earning him the respect of all who served under and beside him. Judging by the ease of the pace in which the menders and physicians moved, the majority of the dire cases had been dealt with. Good.

Reaching the biggest tent, a large green + dominating the sides, he entered and spoke with the Head of the healers. After being chastised for disturbing her work, he left with a promise that she would send two of her best to see to the strange prisoner currently residing in the chapel uphill. They would also provide a thick blanket and food and water to her while she was confined. Pleased with this result he returned to his own tent area to complete plans with the other Commanding Officers regarding the current situation and how to deal with the new information currently flooding their way via the Death Knights.

Morgraine and Highlord Fordring were currently standing far apart from the makeshift camp. They were deep in conversation, though champions of both factions stood nearby, in case anything should break out. This new truce was certainly tentative and placed a small dampener of the victory for The Dawn. Trusting his ultimate superior to do what was right for the people he made his way to the canvas sheltering a table littered with parchments and maps, with three others scribbling away. Rubbing his eyes with one hand, he braced himself for the mountain of paperwork no doubt headed his own way, starting with the roster and death tolls gained today.

It wasn't until dark, when fires lit the campsite and people milled and slept, weary from the fight that peace seemed truly possible. Even though on edge from the fortress floating above, the looming threat was dimmed by the alliance forged this day, allowing everyone to relax and rest. So when screams emitted from the echoes of the halls making up the chapel, that already fragile peace was shattered once more.

Having not slept, he was first into action to reach and thrust open the doors, the light of one- no, two- torches littered on the ground took a moment to adjust to. The sight was not one he expected. A man, human, was backed into a corner on the far side and his dwarven companion was face down on the floor, weeping. Their smocks identified them as the two healers requested-priests in fact, but that wasn't the most obvious thing in this scene. It was that the woman had looked up sharply at his entrance, scurried to the back of the cage and shielded herself with her arms. It was the most movement he had seen of her and the most shocking thing wasn't this transformation of her apparent consciousness, it was the terrified look in her lifeless white eyes as she had lay her gaze on him.

Three others arrived and immediately sprang into action, two headed toward the distraught men and a third cried out in rage aiming a crossbow for the cage. Before the Captain could issue an order, the wire twanged and the bolt plunged straight into her chest. He grabbed the weapon from his subordinate and ordered for him to stand down and get outside, shoving him hard in the meanwhile. This was too small a place for violence and he acted without precedent. Throwing the bow to the side he ran to the cage and hurriedly unlocked it. Surveying the wound he saw no blood, but her look of disbelief was evident as she stared at the foreign object protruding from her body. He swore. He may not have known what had occurred here, but if she died while under Dawn custody until her loyalties were confirmed, that most certainly wouldn't go down well with the Ebon Blade. Even more so if she was in fact sworn to them now. He was halfway to picking her up and running to the infirmary when she did something unheard of- she reached and pulled the arrow straight out of her body. The elf beside her stared in shock. No blood, no tissue or muscle was attached to the arrowhead. It was clean and undamaged, at least until she threw it on the floor. All he could do was gape.

The sobbing healers were lead out of the church, no indication given by any of the three about what had occurred previous to the others' arrival, though the later report stated that no physical injuries were detected. The woman, or girl, she seemed rather young, despite her haunted expression, adamantly refused to leave the cage, ushering out anyone who came in it and sitting stubbornly on the floor. It was the second bizarre thing to happen in such a short period of time

* * *

I saw faces. Young faces, old and wrinkled ones, others lined with creases of hard work and labour. A variety of races, skin tones, ages… they kept flashing in my mind's eye. All of them had one thing in common. Each expression on every man, woman and child was pure terror. And all the eyes would be transfixed on my gaze.

Each time I closed her eyes they were there. Haunting me…scaring me. Rest refused to come and even sheer exhaustion was no escape. I didn't know these faces yet I remembered them vividly. There were numerous people, far too many to count. And they were all staring deep into the very recesses of my soul. I slowly lost my mind.

I heard the screams yet I didn't listen to them. Echoes in the back of my mind, begging, daring and challenging. Always flashes of images, never anything long or real. Always ending in sprays and showers of red.

The vague sense of moving bothered me but I didn't register why or how. The images were coming in quick succession- faster than anything I had experienced before. I couldn't keep up with the jumbled mess. My own mind held me trapped and I had no way out.

Until now.

Waking up brought a little illumination into my eyes, cold to my skin and damp in my mouth. Screams reached my ears. It took a short while for my head to catch up to what I was seeing, and even then I couldn't be sure I wasn't hallucinating. Two people…men… were backing away from me, crying out and stumbling backwards, their fear-filled eyes trained in my direction. At me. It wasn't unlike everything I had witnessed in my own mind, except these were solid and very, very real.

A door was blown wide and a large column of light poured through, my arms threw up by instinct to shield from this, almost as if it burned rather than blinded. Calls, shouts and cries all overwhelmed my head and I couldn't even think straight. It wasn't until a hard _thunk!_ knocked me further into what appeared to be a cage did I gather my senses. I reached down and did the only thing that seemed appropriate. I pulled the offending object straight from my body and neatly examined it. Something…wasn't right with it, but no finger could I place on the wrongness of what I was looking at. A feeling of _ill_ slowly ebbed at my mind but I ignored it. I held peace for only a moment.

And then it hit me. The arrow fell from my hand.

I wasn't sure how much time had passed but no amount of coaxing was going to get me to move, I was not going to leave this confinement _by The Light_. My revelation of horror was enough to wake my mind up enough to realise that I couldn't leave this cage for the sake of the people around me.

I was a monster, and they didn't understand that. There was no evidence of a wound on that arrow or on me where it had pierced. Blood should have dripped from the tip, beat unevenly from my own chest and I should have faded slowly. But I didn't and it was for one horrific, despicable reason.

I was dead, and I was dangerous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have chosen not to use warnings as with its original posting on ff.net. If you have any worries for Triggers, please contact me and I will advise which chapters to avoid with your concerns. 
> 
> Also I welcome criticism (both positive and critical) on all aspects of my writing whether its spelling, grammar, characters, lore or anything else you can think of, so don't hesitate to let me know. Enjoy!


	3. Undisciplined

_The day following the Battle for Light's Hope Chapel_

"I can see why you were so hard to defeat. That's quite an advantage, a gift almost, to have on the battlefield- to be undying." He admired, eyeing the small scar visible below her collarbone. Amazing how it had healed so quickly, or at all, even.

Koltira spat in disbelief at him. "No, not a gift. A curse, a torment." He drew level to the Captain.

Captain Firesworn stood straighter next to the Death Knight. They both idly examined the slip of a girl languidly sitting in the cage. She didn't appear to register their presences.

"She refuses food, water, aid…we thought if you knew her and can vouch for her then you can possibly help her" he offered, gesturing with a calloused hand.

"I recognise her but cannot vouch for her current alliance. I would very much hazard a guess but why take the risk." Koltira drawled. His cold gaze was resting the girl's face. "It is amusing though how you would now take our word for her loyalties when you are unsure as to our own." Firesworn couldn't argue that. Deathweaver had been called following last night's events as a gesture of good will and faith. As former Lieutenant to the Lich King, he would have had most responsibility over the initiates so it made the most sense for him to come and offer some insight. Leaving the Command tent earlier they had received a variety of looks and expressions walking through the camp side by side to the Church.

They were both tall with Blood Elven features, but one was of Winter and the other of Autumn, causing quite a contrast in the bleak stone building. And both men regarded the colourless figure unsure of what to do or how to help. Or at least one of them was worrying about her welfare.

"Do you know who she is at least?" A name, even if temporary would be useful.

"Yes, I do. This is The Hacker, highly skilled in swordcraft and axe wielding. Too small for the larger weapons, but she dual-wields either or quite nicely. Undisciplined still, though I see. A pity- she had promise." He sounded bored.

Firesworn felt his own blood drain from his face. Koltira spoke with such indifference he couldn't be sure he was joking or not. Something told Firesworn in this man's demeanour that he didn't jest. _The Hacker_ was not unheard of in the Argent Dawn circles. Many Death Knights earned such gruesome names, he didn't want to dwell on the origins of _Deathweaver_ for instance _,_ through reputation and to find that The Hacker was…this _girl_ , he almost felt sick.

"I do not know her original name." Koltira finally offered. Firesworn realised he must have been silent too long, prompting the Lieutenant to offer up further information. "I do not know her family name either, such formalities mean little in our… _line of work_ , shall we say. She came to our ranks over a year ago- Razuvius was very happy to send us that particular batch of initiates back when he was still haunting Naxxramas. I think, however only nine of them survived to progress further at Acherus." The Lieutenant distorted his features at the mention of Razuvius, but made no more of it.

"Out of how many?" The Elf couldn't stop himself from asking. His professionalism slipped and for this Koltira levelled his blue-flamed eyes to the Captain.

"Forty-six, in that particular group." It didn't need to be said what happened to the thirty-seven that had not made it. Rotting fleshless corpses piled high at the pyre pits away from the camp gave evidence to that. Now he knew where their 'supply' of Scourge came from. Koltira made to turn to leave, business here evidently finished in his opinion.

"Wait, if you please. What did you mean 'undisciplined'?"

He paused in his step and regarded the girl once more, raising a long white eyebrow.

"Her whole image is neutral. Blank, unattached." Her hair was white as dirtied snow and her skin was certainly pale, yes. Perhaps the Death Knight could see something he couldn't. A hidden aura, perhaps. The Death Knight considered the Captain a moment and proceeded further. "When you discipline under Acherus tutelage you will branch into one of the three combat fields. I am skilled in Frost-based combat." That…made a little sense. He had seen Koltira on the battlefield not a day ago and his actions were indeed harsh winters and blizzards personified. Deadly, cold and ice merged together to create a fatal man. It was now, upon reflection, that Firesworn noticed the blue tinge to his hair and face. The sunrise peaking in the patterned windows created false warmth in the church that Koltira clearly stood apart from, highlighting the cold appearance.

"I see. And now that Acherus is no longer under The Lich King's Command she can no longer train in a specific discipline? Is that why she has no more promise, as you say?"

"No." He paused, raking his eyes across her face from over his shoulder. "She has regained a glimmer of her humanity, and for that, she cannot specialise." With that he turned heel and walked out into the sunlight, a harsh stride paving his way, concluding their talk.

To say that Ryndan Firesworn was easily confused would be a lie, however, as the Ebon Blade representative effectively swept out of his view he began to question how true that might be. _She has regained a glimmer of her humanity._ This statement made him quake internally. What do they go through to train for Arthas? He couldn't help but wonder why this _girl_ sought to join his undead legions. And she succeeded.

It was only as he went to guess her age that he realised that as much as he was staring at her, but she was also _staring back_. Years of military training made him withhold the flinch that threatened under her penetrating gaze. Neither spoke and neither moved. A stalemate was silently made and no one pushed forward in fear of breaking this tense truce. It was the most alive she had seemed in a non-terrified capacity. She seemed … _there._

"Sir! Field Marshal Heron requests your presence at once!" a soldier had broken the reverie by coming to halt right at the open doors. Ryndan barked a response and glancing once more at the prisoner, the sunlight moving over the cage through broken windows, he made a decision. He opened the cage grate and walked away.

* * *

_Has no more promise….undisciplined….humanity…_

That man…that Knight. Deathweaver, was his name. He seemed familiar. He was very serious. Deathweaver never lied or admitted false truths. I don't know how I knew, I just did. He was straight to the point every time. Speaking was barely worth doing unless it was highly constructive, critical or fact-altering. It was his way. He almost made me sound… useless. He knew I could hear every word spoken in front of me, and meeting his eyes when he said I had a glimmer of humanity bore witness to that fact. Like he was trying to drive that particular statement into me.

And now I stare out of an open, unguarded grate. There were no guards, no watchers or keepers. Whatever had happened when I woke the previous night made them think it was for the best no one stayed near me. I happened to agree with them, personally. That man…who held the keys. Why did he do it? His face was recognisable from last night, I was sure. I barely took in any information at the time but having not slept, having been unable to physically sleep, gave my mind the time to process things. That elf certainly was memorable. Standing next to Deathweaver was like a beacon of warm fire, melting away the ice and cold. Metaphorically speaking anyway, right now I could feel nothing.

He left the cage open. Whatever his stunt was, he was showing some form of trust on my part. He seemed to take the Lieutenant's words as fact and made a decision from that. Either that or it was some form of trap. What do I do now?

* * *

Captain Ryndan Firesworn pulled off his boots with great effort, tossing his cloak to one side and collapsed onto one of the two cots occupying this pathetic excuse for even a hastily made tent. He didn't complain however, given that it was the first time he'd been able to stop since the battle yesterday. His armour had been discarded the previous day, laying in a small heap to the foot of the cot, donning his mail in favour for the rest of his work, but without the weight of either bearing down on his exhausted form now he felt as light as a feather. Even though his body protested the movement, he shifted into a more comfortable position and threw his arm over his eyes in an attempt to hide from the brightened canvas of the tent. He was finally off-duty and even though it was midday, he was determined to catch some sleep. Finally…

"You snore like a pig in slop. And you smell like one too."

It would appear sleep would yet evade him. "How would you know what pigs smelled like?" Ryndan grumbled. A hollow chuckle was his reply.

"Now, now Firesworn. I simply heard you're having some fun with a new piece of meat in the church, you sordid man. Here I thought you took vows of charity or whatever." Ryndan didn't even open his eyes. He was almost tempted to drift off to sleep and see if ignoring him might work. Just. This. Once. After a few seconds of saying nothing, he thought he'd gotten away with it, maybe his company had left him alone-

"What are you doing!?" A large object had landed on his face most unceremoniously and Ryndan's battle reflexes shot him to his feet in preparation to retaliate. The Undead man he currently had gripped by the freshly-washed shirt didn't even flinch.

"My, my, testy this morning, aren't we?" the attacker drawled. Ryndan sighed and relieved his grip, dropping his friend to his feet. It had happened so quickly that the Captain hadn't even registered that the object had been a pathetic-excuse-for-a-pillow, and that he had hoisted his assailant in the air was close to smashing the face in of his tent-partner, the Baron Walden.

"You're such a fool. I would be tempted to say you had a death wish on you." At this, Walden barked a harsh laugh. Collapsing back onto the bed Ryndan enquired why he had been so rudely awoken.

"Like I said, I heard you were interrogating some prisoner up in the chapel and I wanted the gossip." He grinned widely, revealing a mostly-full set of teeth…even if they were very yellow and gumless. His scraggle of dark hair was pulled into a hair-tie at the base of his skull, and combined with his high-quality clothing, he was probably the most presentable looking in the camp. He should have been surprised, or angry. Annoyed even would have covered it but Ryndan had known this man too long to even waste the energy to get bothered by it. Walden did what he wanted and when he wanted. Mostly. Even if it disturbed others. The bastard.

"Yes, the Death Knight girl." He could see her face so clearly- it was so pale and plain, with blind-looking eyes staring at him. "She's…unusual. Doesn't say a word. She still refuses food and water. "

"What would a Death Knight do with such commodities, pray tell? Pretty up the church with food art?'' the Baron cut in, seemingly amused. Ryndan was too tired to play along with him.

"Eurgh, just be quiet." Another laugh. He's too easily amused. When it became evident he wasn't going to elaborate what he meant, Ryndan moved on.

"I've released her, it's up to her what she does now- run, join us, fight, go renegade. I reported this back to my Field Marshal. He says three Death Knights so far were mutually agreed by the Ebon Blade and the Dawn to be executed." He drew a face in disgust. They still freely admit fealty to the Lich King, the fools- ranting about being hailed from the dead to serve their master. "Their executions will be held after the Mourning Services tomorrow away from the camp. If anymore runaways are found…they'll be questioned in the same manner I suppose." He remembered hearing when she, the first one, was caught and thrown in that cage until she calmed. Now she was _too_ calm. The ones who had fled and caught so far were being held in Acherus for the time being. Separately.

"Deathweaver says he doesn't know this girl's loyalties but he gave no indication that she would go to Arthas." He paused, thinking. In fact, Deathweaver hadn't really said she'd join the Ebon Blade either, but there was something in her eyes, that small _glimmer of humanity_ that he had mentioned, that just made him want to believe that she would do right by her freedom. There was a huge risk in just letting her walk, he knew that. The Field Marshal had questioned his actions but The Light had given him this feeling and so he went with it, praying it was right.

"Is she cute?" Walden said a little too innocently. Ryndan scoffed.

"She's a Blood Elf like me, or at least of High Elven blood, I can't tell with her skin and eyes at the moment, not that it matters. Though her physique…" When he had held her up yesterday to check her mental faculties, her body shape and physical attributes were a little out of proportion, he had noted. "I am unsure, there are just some things about her that seem disproportionate for an Elf. And she's so young! Barely older than my youngest sister, I'd wager." That was a fact that disturbed him the most. At twenty-seven summers old, Ryndan Firesworn was one of the younger Captains in the Argent Dawn Campaign. He had seen some gruesome and terrible things, but even something as small as an age of a soldier, a child-soldier still disturbed him. The knowledge had broken through the barrier he had drawn in his mind to protect him from these horrors. He had kept the information that she was _The Hacker_ to himself, not even telling his superior. He wanted to talk to her personally about it, if she ever woke up from her bizarre frame of mind. Somehow, if that information became known, her blood would be called for and he couldn't be the reason for the ultimate death of a child, death knight or not. The Light would see to justice, if justice was to be served, he comforted himself with.

He became lost in thought, so much so that he didn't notice Walden leave the tent in his quiet manner or that he eventually fell asleep, staring at the tent carapace and thinking of haunted eyes in a field of white.


	4. Reunion

_One day after the Battle for Light's Hope Chapel- Night time._

It was night, cold and damp in the Plaguelands. How aptly named they were. Captain Firesworn had checked on the healers' tents, noting the two on duty drinking cups of bland tea, taken note of supplies, done the same with the kitchen area and had moved on to the recently set up forges. For all that war is bloody, the administration also needs doing also. And given the chaos of the newly made camp, they had to make sure they could support the current populace. He had sent a soldier to check the church and he had reported back that it was emptied. He was only a little surprised.

Walden had passed him on his rounds and reported that he too had went to see the girl but found that the church was no longer occupied. Claiming boredom, the rogue followed Ryndan around trying to unnecessarily scare people unused to working alongside Forsaken. There were still a few up this time of night, sitting around campfires on boxes, crates and other makeshift seats. Some laughed and joked, others were more sombre, mourning their losses from the attack, cradling their wounds. The roster was still unfinished, a few names missing and unaccounted for. Limbs were occasionally found while clearing the local area during reconnaissance but who they belonged to was a mystery.

"Oh, by the way, it's Vows of _Chastity_ and they are normally taken by the Brotherhoods and Sisterhoods, not Argent Dawn Paladins." Ryndan recited. Walden cocked his skull curiously- "What, in the name of the Lady, are you talking about, man?"

"You said I took Vows of 'Charity' in relation to the meeting of one young Death Knight and I'm now correcting you." He stated matter-of-factly. He marked off some more supplies, flipping through a couple of pages to total his numbers. Walden shook his head.

" You're so …you're such a nitpicker. Bloody Paladins…" Walden kicked a stone into a pile of broken armour, the resulting clatter startling nearby people. "By the way- you said the executions are tomorrow?"

"Aye, the Service is tomorrow after breakfast and then the executions are to be privately held in the Noxious Glade following" he ticked off another crate of goods and marked what needed restocking. He frowned, these tallies were lower than he'd like. "A few higher-ups from both groups are to attend."

"Yourself included?" The Baron was a gossipmonger and usually found out one way or another what was going on. Knowing this, Ryndan just felt it best to tell the former-man up straight.

"No, I'm going to be seeing to the … _aftermath_ of the cremations and blessings will be led by the good Father Timyr." He checked off another stack of goods and moved to the next, undead in tow. Ryndan slowly rotated his neck, it feeling stiff.

"Sad business that. I wanted to be cremated…" He sounded so wistful, a small glimpse at the human he had been before. "I might go witness the killings, give myself some satisfaction at the bastar-oh!" Looking up from his administrative journal, Ryndan was greeted with the sight of Walden barely holding his jaw from falling off, the skin stretching dangerously thin over it. A few of the nearby worksmiths had already shuffled away but at this two of them had jumped and staggered backwards.

" _That_ is disgusting. Go see the blacksmiths and ask them to stick a nail in it." A grotesque click was heard and he grimaced, concentrating on his tallies silently glad he had forgone dinner in favour of sleep.

"You're hilarious," another click. "Tell you what, why don't I go ask the blacksmiths to shove a nail up your ar-." He stopped gesturing exactly where the nail was going and froze, hands falling to his sides.

Frowning, Ryndan looked to his companion to see what was wrong. He was staring beyond Ryndan's shoulder, and he was clearly in shock. Curiosity overwhelming him, the Elf turned, following his gaze and dropped his tally-board. The image presented to him made his body freeze.

It was the Death Knight girl. And she was covered in blood. The dark colour was a sharp contrast to her pale form which was already clothed in neutral tones. The blood didn't appear to be her own, it was from whatever she had hanging across her back. _Anar'alah_ , it was a body.

A small crowd gathered near her, she stood near the edge of the camp, having just arrived. She ignored the growing group and was staring at Ryndan, uncaring of the dripping burden. No, she was staring _behind_ him.

"Mort…" was all she said.

* * *

The healers' tents were well lit with lanterns, spacious and now, mostly empty. They had truly out done themselves during and after the battle, tirelessly working to save each and every individual. Even a couple of Death Knights had been ushered in here by Talia to clean up a stump or a wound tidied. She knew it wasn't necessary, but she it was how she diverted her mind from dwelling on what she had witnessed come through those tent flaps. Overnight patients were in the Recovery tent across from the main hospital tent, she had not long gone in and done the rounds, all safe and well. She had happily sat down with her mug of tea, re-plaiting her grey-streaked hair, chatting idly with Lorik. This was soon interrupted by a small party led by young Ryndan Firesworn carrying a large bundle and closely followed by the Baron William Walden. And now she was looking at the mutilated body of the-now-former Corporal Mason, and his murderer.

The girl stood in a corner of the tent away from the group. Baron Walden was collapsed on a wooden stool looking in her direction while she avoided his- well, everyone's gaze. Young Ryndan Firesworn was frowning down at the corpse and Lorik was bustling about with water and bandages to start cleaning him up in preparation for his funeral. The large Draenei was offering the only movement and source of noise in the tense silence of the tent.

Talia was astounded when Dan had carried the body in with his entourage of two following slowly in his wake- her eyes going straight to the blood. She immediately recognised the boy as dead, quashing the feeling of dread whenever she saw a deceased body, and went to see to the girl only to conclude that she was unharmed and simply retrieving Mason.

"What is goin' oan here." She enunciated in her thick Dwarven accent, it was one of the things that endeared Ryndan to her, she was so motherly and fierce. Even that couldn't calm him right now, though it was the only thing stopping him from killing the death knight where she stood. Or harming her at least. Brutally.

"It would seem that our _guest_ was the …instigator of this horrid incident and sought to retrieve him for proper burial." His voice was quiet and very controlled. Not a few minutes before, the girl had quickly, and quietly, explained that she had recalled her 'Re-awakening' and had set out to do right by the man she had unknowingly slaughtered. Ryndan was barely containing his anger and rage. Her voice wasn't soft as a girl's should be, it was coarse and broken, like it had rusted, almost. Her accent was almost indistinguishable through her staggered Common. He had moved forward, she gingerly handed over the body, Ryndan slumping over the weight he now bore not even stopping to think about how she carried a fully grown man and making straight for the healers' tent, not knowing his comrade had already passed.

"Right, well. Thank you dear, for retrieving our fallen brother." She was far too kind, nodding in the direction of the slayer. He didn't look, but he sensed her stiffen. Lorik moved onto tenderly cleaning Mason and Talia gestured for the group to move further down the tent. Nearer _her._ Drawing a makeshift curtain around the bed, giving the vestige of some privacy for the deceased, she sat at the furthermost bed, legs dangling, looking to each of the people now sitting in silence. It was soon broken, and not by who she thought might be the one to break it.

"Cers…Cersae…" Walden's voice was pleading and quiet. He leaned forward on his stool in the direction of his objective, hoping to garner her attention his way. Ryndan's long ears perked, not having missed the mention of her name. It worked, her eyes flickered to the Forsaken, expression heartbroken and grievous. Ryndan had never seen a Death Knight show remorse before. Their expressions ranged from bloodthirsty to arrogant to cold and calculating, never a morsel of human warmth shining through. Until now. He felt no pity.

"Little Girl, please talk to me. It is you, isn't it?" Her brow furrowed further and she gave a nearly imperceptible nod.

"My dear Baron, you know this young lady?" Talia was shocked and looked back and forth between the undead and the girl. Their gazes were so focussed on each other, Ryndan doubted either of them heard her, but he did.

"Walden! How do you know her?" His tone was harsh and commanding, anger seeping through gritted teeth. Any pity he held for her from the previous day vanished with this one admittance of murder. Walden managed to tear his eyes- what was left of them- from her shadowed form in the corner to glance at him.  
"Aye, I know her. We met by way of a mutual friend, when she was…human." He spoke the last word a whisper and ground his teeth. Ryndan supposed he meant before she pledged her life and soul to the tyrant now plaguing Azeroth. How long ago was that? Koltira had said she joined the Acherus branch over a year ago, how long did she train in death-dealing before then? His mood grew darker as time went by. Sparing a glance at her, he saw that her eyes were wide and unfocussed.

"By the Light… _Edmund."_ Her voice was sharp and cracked, ugly, almost. She had stood up straighter, walking further into the light. The dead blood painting her was thrown into sharp relief against the pale backdrop of the tent. Walden nodded.  
"Aye lass, he searched high and low for you, my dear." Ryndan had never heard his dead friend speak so… tenderly, so kindly to someone. He was sarcastic and upfront, conniving and insulting. This was not the Walden he knew. This was Ryndan talking to his sisters, Tal talking to her friends and loved ones. This was Walden talking to someone he truly cared for. Frowning, the Blood Elf felt his anger fade a fraction.

"Where- where is he?" Talia and Ryndan had evidently been forgotten about, simple acting as onlookers to this reunion. Walden rose and slowly took a step towards her.

"Little Girl, I haven't seen him in a long time. He was distraught after…after what happened to you. He set off- I helped as much as I could, trying to listen out for a whisper of your whereabouts, but soon, the society…my people, they needed me to go back on duty." Talia's eyes were shining at the height of emotion. Ryndan threw a quick glance to the curtained off cot and felt it impossible in his callous state to see how these two dead beings could express such feelings. However, there was something odd about this whole situation.

"What do you mean ' _what happened to you'_ , Walden. What _happened_ to this girl?" he demanded, this teary reconciliation was clawing at his temper, his patience more fragile than glass.

"I was there…she was ..oh dammit!" He nearly crumpled, Talia jumping as if to catch him. He caught himself. "She was _forced_ to become what she is now." He looked as distressed as he could with his partially rotted features. Ryndan was sure his friend would cry if able to, so thick was he with emotion at the presence of this girl. She nodded twice at this absentmindedly.

"Forced? In what manner? How is one forced into servitude?"

"No, what happened to Edmund, Mort, I need you to tell me." The girl was looking hard and straight at Walden, or Mort as she seemed to refer to him, silently reasoning that her question was more important. Her voice was stronger now. She seemed older than the estimated sixteen or so he had her down as. Walden didn't even look conflicted at the two lines of questioning- he chose her.

"Cers, I haven't seen him in a long time, he left for the North, finding a small hint that newly –turned … _knights_ were taken there. After- after Naxxramas was moved he followed it. He was so sure you were in there." Ryndan briefly recalled hearing the reports of that giant fortress travelling the atlas north, causing panic to all those it passed over. Rumour had it that it was more terrifying a presence than Acherus currently shading the camp. When had it moved? He couldn't recall right now. He watched as her composure briefly faltered, a frown furrowing her brow and a whispered 'Naxxramas' reached his long ears. She soon recovered to refocus sharply on Walden.

"Where. Is. He." Each word almost seemed like a threat. Ryndan rested one hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Cersae, you must understand, it's been some time since you were turned, I've lost track of his whereabouts despite my best efforts. I last heard of him a year and a half ago, making way to travel to the north." The girl faltered.

She was stunned, mouth agape and shock teeming from her body.

"A..year…and a half? Mort, it can't- no! It _can't_ have been. I …it feels like, no I did! I saw you only a few days ago." Her voice trailed off, face dressed in disbelief and mortification. Walden regarded her sadly, pitifully, his stance slumped in defeat.

"Oh my dear Little Girl." He slowly stepped towards her, entering near her personal space. Ryndan's mind was churning, something at the back of his mind nagging him. Walden gingerly placed two long, skeletal hands on her slim shoulders. The Elf couldn't place his finger on it. Her eyes were wide and trusting, but not innocent, staring upwards at Walden. Ryndan involuntarily gasped- Naxxramas had moved two years ago-

"You- well, you were turned over three years ago now."

She screamed.

 


	5. Unable to Accept Reality

Ryndan swept out of the tent, not caring to hear anymore. He was still seething from the sheer audacity she had in retrieving someone she had murdered. He didn't care whether she remembered doing it or not, she still did it and she was still guilty of every other heinous crime she had committed in service, or so he told himself. Her reputation as _The Hacker_ was certainly a gruesome one, and seeing her covered in blood- one of his own comrades- solidified the image of her being a murderous Death Knight. He stalked past onlookers and curious hangers-by. They were whispering and pointing. The scene of a Death Knight walking into the camp with a dead body certainly wasn't going to be kept quiet any time soon. He set off to report to his Field Marshal- he would hear about it eventually, might as well get it over with.

Slowing as he reached one of the Officers tents, he spared a glance to the church up the hill and grimaced. Taking a deep breath in a poor effort to calm down, he announced his arrival and was invited in. He pulled the flap open and walked inside.

* * *

"A Death Knight…" I barely noticed how inaudible my own voice sounded.

"Aye, lass. It was one of the worst days of my un-life seeing you go through that."

My head was spinning from the intake of information, but thankfully the cots we sat on were keeping me from falling. Mort sat across from me, leaning on his knees and I stared simply at nothing, unable to accept my fate.

"I…killed a man. He was just there, when I a-awoke. I had no…I didn't even…He was just _dead_." The picture of his blood running down my swords, dripping mercilessly onto the earth was still vivid. My armour and weapons had still lain beside the man from where I had thrown them from my body when I searched him out earlier this evening. I had ignored them, my only objective to bring a small amount of peace to that poor soldier. Why we were so far from the main battle site fighting I just don't remember, I had told Mort as much. He just shook his head slightly and patted me awkwardly.

We were now alone in the tent, the Elven man who released me stormed out after my hysteria and the healers had left to do rounds in the other tents.

I was a Death Knight, I was told. I had no real concept of what those two words really meant. Turned against my will in some sadistic ritual. I didn't remember. I had seen my reflection a second time- Talia, the little dwarven woman, had ushered me to a wash basin and helped rinse all the blood and dirt from my hair, wiping my face and pressing clean clothes to me saying she would be back in a moment. The water didn't lie, even though I hoped it would. Asking Mort what my appearance used to be he had said 'Hair the colour of the earth and eyes as dark as his leather breeches'. Now my hair was white, faded and dull. My eyes were pale and emotionless. Echoes of horrors past seen within even if my own mind refused to divulge them to me. And I was a monster. I didn't notice my lack of breathing to begin with. I guess after three years my body became used to it.

"Three years…and all this time…I've become _this."_ I didn't even remember those years, making it all the more frustrating.

"Now now, m'dear, enough of that." Talia had arrived back in with a bowl of something steaming and some bread balanced on a wooden cup. She set it down on the bedside and sat next to Mort. Her hair was bright orange with streaks of grey and she had large green eyes. She swung her legs back and forth like a child on a swing. "You're going to eat up, rest for the night and we can discuss this all tomorrow. It's been a hard couple o' days fir all of us and the last thing we need is more agitation and anger." Nice as it was, her tone left no pause for argument, but that didn't stop me.

"How can you possibly be so kind to me knowing I'm responsible for that?" I swept my arm in way of gesture towards the closed off cot a few beds down. Talia levelled her wise gaze on me, my resolve was already fragile and crumbled a little further at this.

"You were evidently not in your right mind. I have spoken with some former death knights, those who are just as confused as you, and have come to the conclusion that some of you were possessed into entering the Undead Legion. There does appear to be a high number who entered willingly," She paused with a grimace, but pressed on regardless, "but a small handful, like you, has returned following the battle two days ago with memory loss." I was stunned, to say the least. I knew I hadn't entered willingly, flashes of the ritual would occasionally spark in my mind's eye, the images now making sense with Mort's description of my ordeal. And I know that I didn't want to do it. To know that others had also been forced into the same endless horror as me, I had no words. She continued, while fussing around beside me, "You are assured that you didn't enter willingly due to the testimony of our dear Baron, here," she smiled at him. He gave a crooked grin in return, a small pang of familiarity igniting inside me.

"It doesn't excuse what I did." I mumbled weakly, drawing my knees up. My despair was eating away at me. I had no idea what I had done, if anything else, beyond one murder, but there was a hollow inside of me with dark whispers echoing cruel things. Something told me I wouldn't not feel such a void within if I was not connected to darkness and cruelty in some way.

"Well, that's for you to come to terms with my dear, I personally, won't hold any actions against you while you were under the influence of external forces." She gave a small smile and gestured to the stew, now cooled down. I glanced at it. Even though I hadn't eaten the previous day or two, I still didn't feel hungry. Reasoning won out and suggested I try to eat something, perhaps regain my appetite in the process. Mort made a noise of protest but I ignored it and was soon dipping in some slightly stale bread, I ate a few spoonfuls, not caring that I had two onlookers. It tasted of nothing. My coordination was sloppy and fumbling. I barely managed four mouthfuls before my muscles heaved and I was on my hands and knees retching up all of my stomach contents. Talia was beside me, holding my hair and rubbing my back. I choked and finally heaved once more only for large, black _sludge_ to force its way up my throat and onto the tent floor. I stared at it in horror, not caring that the aftertaste was disgusting. This looked like something from an old swamp, all rotted and coagulated. This had been inside my _body._

"Alright there, Little Girl, up we get." I was lifted to my feet with Mort's aid and walked away slowly from the pile of ooze and vomit. The food was still whole and intact, as I had just eaten it, now drowning in something utterly disgusting. "Aye Tal, I'll take her to a spare tent to rest." His voice sounded so far away.

"I think we'll bypass the food for now then, lass. I'm sorry, I thought maybe you would be able to..." Looking to Talia's sad eyes it took a moment to realise why she was apologising. I couldn't eat. I didn't breath. I hadn't aged according to Mort. Just like last night, looking at the arrow protruding from my chest, the startling revelation hit me with the force of a Kodo stampede. I was neither alive nor dead. I was in Limbo, Hell and a nightmare all at once, and there was nothing I could do to escape it.

* * *

_Two Days after the Battle for Light's Hope Chapel- Before Dawn._

Ryndan rubbed his hands across his face, exhaustion starting to set in once more. It was late into the night already, and having just finished giving the report to his Field Marshal ("Damned Death Knights, be better off without the beasts!") and made way to collapse into his cot. Instead he found Walden perched on it looking as sombre as a corpse could, head hanging low. Internally sighing, Ryndan parked on the opposite cot, the two sitting in amicable silence for a short while.

"She was so young. Just turned eighteen springs." The statement broke the quietude as subtlety as a cheese wire carves slices. Walden was lost in his own world- the Paladin Captain has indeed seen a few strange stupors that his friend occasionally fell into, but this seemed deeper and darker than any of the remorse-filled trances he had witnessed before. Ryndan remained quiet, allowing the rogue to vent his thoughts.

"I- we tried so hard to save her. But that…that _bastard_ , that _monster_! What he did- oh! She just screamed…" He choked. "Now she's no longer the innocent young woman I knew." His clasped, bony hands were shaking violently. "Do you know, at one point during our search we almost wished her dead?" He lifted his broken face and stared at his friend. Ryndan didn't know what to say. His own heart broke at seeing someone close crumble right in front of him. The way Walden spoke about the girl…he was almost tempted to wash away this horrid image he had built up of her- of her just being a cold-blooded murderer. The only thing stopping him from doing that was the memory of a blood-soaked corpse, laying on clean sheets only a few tents up the hill.

"At least if she were dead, we would know she was better off than this hell!" He shouted the last word, voice cracking. Walden rarely got angry, preferring a calm, cocky demeanour. "And Edmund! He hasn't stopped searching. I don't even know where the poor bugger is to tell him."

"Who is this Edmund? You mentioned him before." He asked more gentle than intended. It was the first thought not fuelled by rage or hate, but genuine curiosity. This young woman's (for a quick calculation told him that she should be technically twenty-one springs now) history was certainly getting more and more interesting.

"Edmund was our mutual friend. He brought her up from…the south of the continent, to study with the Alchemists of the Undercity. She was-"

"She's an Alchemist?" Walden didn't seem bothered by the interrupt; he was just staring at a spot next to Ryndan.

"Aye, and a damned good one. The Society was _very_ interested in her, if I recall. Heh, she was so fierce! Such cheek!" If he could smile wholeheartedly, Ryndan knew Walden would be doing so. He seemed so proud of this woman. "I taught her how to wield a dagger, she was terrible at it. Took me weeks to get her grip correct and even then she was sloppy." He paused for a moment, lost in his own recollections. These mood swings were rare for Walden, he didn't often let any emotion get the better of him..

"She was in love with Edmund, you could see it leagues away. I wasn't even sure she knew, but she was. He was about your age or so when he brought her up, maybe younger. Cared for her a great deal, that much I do know. Whether he loved her back, I am unsure. After…what happened to her, he went berserk. Would have torn Azeroth in half to find her. Last I knew he went to the North, following that Damned Fortress, Naxxramas, the fool. Whether it's guilt, love or something else driving him, I don't know. I just wish I could tell him she was safe, even if cursed" he spat. "Then he could at least move on."

"And you?"

Walden lifted his head and stared right into Ryndan's very soul. "She was almost like the daughter I never had, Dan." Ryndan drew in a sharp breath. "I look at her, covered in blood and she's just so, so _tainted_. Her eyes are so vacant, lacking that fire I knew. She's in there, Dan, I know she is. She's just cursed, damn it! I just wish I could help her- I feel so useless!" Ryndan couldn't fathom why his friend had never mentioned this girl before; he had known the dead Baron for a few years now. All this time, he'd been suffering with this. Searching his taught, grey face in the filtered moonlight through the tent-flap, the Captain made a decision to lighten his friend's grief.

"Word to the wise, though it's unofficial yet, the Highlord is going to go ahead with moving the bulk of this taskforce to Northrend for an official assault on Arthas." He paused, thinking how much to say. Shrugging, he let out all he knew-"A small contingent will stay here to secure the Chapel, to reclaim the Plaguelands and restore the Former Lordaeron as much as possible, but Fordring thinks that with the Ebon Blade behind us now, as well as the forces from the Horde and the Alliance, then a successful assault may be plausible. Maybe with Arthas off of the throne…" Field Marshal Heron had confided this in him an hour ago, grey with exhaustion and unsure about the direction the Dawn was headed in. Ryndan had his own doubts, but they had to place their trust in the Highlord that he knew what he was doing. It was all they could do.

"You're saying I should go North?" the hope in his voice was not lost on the Paladin.

"Aye, I'm saying you should come North."


	6. Bitter Truths

_Two Days after the Battle for Light's Hope Chapel- Before Dawn._

The attack took place a couple of hours before dawn. Swarming from the west, seemingly organised, hordes of corpses, dire creatures and monsters fell upon the makeshift camp at Lights Hope Chapel. Ryndan had barely slept, rising to his feet and donning his unpolished armour over unwashed padding to the sound of the Warning Calls. Sheathing his sword, he joined the gathering crowd to the entrance of the camp. A large, ragged mass was moving towards them and in the dark, they had the advantage. The Highlord was visible atop a stack of boxes, encouraging the men and women standing before him. All sorts of races- from small gnomes to towering trolls listened in with fierce attentiveness. The rabble of Scourge were getting louder, ever closer. Everyone was on edge, scarcely recovered from the fight days ago. Fordring was barely into his speech when the first clashes of blade-on-flesh was heard. Then the screams. At that, the crowds dissipated and war was on.

Ryndan charged forward to the frontlines, never cowing from the fight. His blade flashed like so many of his comrades' did in the scattered torchlight behind him. He caught glimpses of faces he recognised thrust in the sea of monstrosities assaulting them. Black blood and dirt painted the air as sword ripped through rotted flesh, as blades dismembered heads from shoulders, as claws tore open torsos to the sounds of agonising screams. He ducked and swerved, slicing his blade clean through dead bone and sinew. He grabbed a soldier off of the ground thrusting him behind, barking at him to get to the healers- the troll's forearm lay on the earth.

A grotesque bellow was heard and large, gruesome horrors carved paths wielding rusted axes, chains rattling at their limbs. Barely pausing to be disgusted, Ryndan made for the beasts, calling on The Light for aid in fighting the Scourge Plague assaulting his brethren. Walden was there, cutting in and out, daggers sharp-tipped and dripping in poisons. Keenly and deftly, he was slicing slowly at the slow beast's legs and arms until it was rendered useless. Ryndan drove his sword, his extension of his own being, straight into the chest of the nightmare and it dropped ungraciously, twitching a moment before belching its death. Meeting Walden's eyes, he gave a grateful nod and moved onto the next enemy. They were never-ending.

Sunrise drew nigh as the light behind the hills grew bright. The Scourge was dwindling down to the last few, the Argent Dawn also suffering its own casualties. Ryndan's legs were shaking as he plunged his blade into the back of a ghoul-fiend, the body dropping stone-dead at his feet, finally stilled. He tried to catch his breath, observing the scene around him. At the far outskirts of the battlefield, he had a large overview of the conclusion to the attack. The ground was littered with atrocities and friends alike. Bright tabards a gruesome contrast to the fetid presence of their attackers. His own tabard was spattered with blood, both his own and kinsmen. Pale skin and lifeless eyes searching the skies were all that remained of the fallen Ebon Blades who had rushed to the Dawn's aid from their fortress on high. Other Death Knights stood still as statues, observing the scene like him and his own companions. He swallowed back some bile. There seemed to be no more to kill, they had beaten them back-

His head hit the ground with such a force, Ryndan saw stars. Clutching his skull, he felt the point of a blade tip touch the back of his uncovered neck, his short brown hair matted with blood, leaving it exposed.

"Perfect, at least I'll get one of you before I die!" A hollow voice, reminiscent of those the Dawn now allied with. Glancing over his shoulder from his position on the ground, Ryndan bleary vision looked into the blue eyes of a man gone mad. It was a Death Knight. The blade was raised into the air. His own was now out of arms reach.

"Die you piece of filth!" Ryndan tried to roll away, but his body wouldn't listen. In that split moment he saw his sisters, his parents and friends all before him, crying. He heard the sword drawing closer, about to deliver his death blow.

"Argh!"

The sword didn't make contact- and Ryndan saw why- another person had jumped into the fray, knocking the night aside. He- no, _she-_ was lithe and fast, deadly and calculating. Her hands bore two swords of uneven length, gleaming in the newly-risen sunlight. Black blood flew high and arced overhead, cries of anguish as each cut went deeper and further into his body. Her white hair was gathered behind her head, but he knew only one person it could be. Her assault never wavered in its tempo. His screams grew to a crescendo. She was terrifying to witness.

And then she finished him off. Not even a coup-de-grace. She sliced him clean through the stomach and he collapsed to the floor, jerking unnaturally as his un-life faded. She watched on, her back to Ryndan, swords hanging casually from her small hands. He gasped for breath he could not draw, eyes wide and pleading, gagging on black liquid, frothing from his throat and mouth. She did nothing.

And then he died.

Bending down, she thrust her swords into his body and wiped her hands on his cloak. She turned to look at Ryndan- and he choked.

Her eyes were no longer the pale, blind-seeming orbs he had seen yesterday. These were the blue-tinged eyes of a Champion of Arthas. Her expression was stoic and calm, uncaring about the kill she had just made. She had saved his life and she thought nothing of it, more like she simply enjoyed the kill. She was transformed- this, _this_ was what the Dawn had fought only days ago. These cold, merciless, icy beings. They were uncaring or unfeeling about death. It was their nature and they were Death's hands.

She approached him, no- she went for something _near_ him. It was an axe, a heavy dual-bladed axe, discarded by some unfortunate victim, no doubt. Picking it up with ease, the blade was soon swung in a gruesome curve straight through the deceased attacker. Another blow, to his leg, his arms, his chest, his face. Ryndan could do nothing but look on with morbid fascination and horror. Soon nothing but gore and bloodied innards lay in its wake-the outline of a corpse no longer distinguishable. The head lay feet away. The origins of her dubbed namesake were now clearly evident in a pool of carnage.

The offending weapon was unceremoniously dumped on the plagued terrain. And then she walked away.

* * *

"That better be the last fray we have, otherwise my healers will drop dead on their feet, the poor wee souls!" Tal was bustling about, her white smock tattered and splattered with all sorts. Ryndan cradled his head, it was still pounding from earlier. A healing draught had been administered and he was just waiting for it to take effect.

"Indeed, I do not think that even your tea can keep me awake for much longer." Lorik- the blue-skinned draenei had walked by the bed, carrying a box of what could be assumed to be medical supplies. His accent was thick and his words slurred with tiredness. Ryndan didn't blame him, he'd been on duty through the night as well, before the battle. Talia stopped her work and stood in front of him, her eyes level with his while he sat.

"Oh, you should know that the two healers I sent to see to the girl two nights ago, well, one of them is speaking now." Her face grew withdrawn; Ryndan didn't like that expression on her. "They peered into her mind, it would seem. Being Priests, I thought that the best course of action after what you described to me." She dropped her voice low, leaning in. "He rambles about horrifying and terrible things, Dan. Whatever they saw in her head, I dread to think what it was like for her to witness them. I'm a little glad she doesn't remember it." They looked at each other meaningfully, the weight of her words resting on his mind. He nodded, and in doing so, caught a sharp pain to the back of his head. He grasped his neck.

"Right you, off you go to bed and sleep that off. You're lucky no to have a concussion or you'd be staying here." Talia was not a force to be reckoned with so the elf drew up tall, almost twice her height and bowed dramatically. She laughed. "Ach, you're a cheeky lad! Remind me o' me own. Now, off to bed!" Smiling, Ryndan walked past the now-filled cots and left the tent, gingerly moving as he did.

Aching all over, a large hand clutching bruised ribs, he walked to his tent, replaying the moment in his mind he had seen her fight, and then Tal's words on top of that. He couldn't help but think at what kind of evils and terrors that death knight girl had seen, or perhaps even done. Was she really in her right mind the past three years? Thinking back to the battlefield, he thought she looked possessed, consumed by something out with her control. The Captain wasn't sure if he should pity her or be afraid of her, such was her actions like nothing he had witnessed before. He stopped walking.

The subject of his thoughts was standing next to a dead campfire, empty boxes surrounding it, some toppled from the panic of the night before. Her hair was mostly fallen out of her tie, dangling limp around her face and she just stared into the fire pit, unhearing or unseeing. Drawing a deep breath, he moved towards her and sat on a crate opposite her. Her eyes were no longer blue-whatever frenzy has possessed her earlier had now dissipated, her Death Knight mien alongside it. She made no note of his presence, much like the first time they had 'met'. He became wary, his nerves still shaken up from a few hours ago. Fixing his eyes on a black-charred piece of firewood, he carefully said his next words like they were the hardest thing he had ever had to say.

"Uhm, listen, I wanted to thank-"

"I can't seem to get warm." He cut off, staring at her. Her face gave nothing away that she had spoken, but he was sure she had. She was still filthy and blood-ridden. It was almost as if the colour was drawn to her, desperate to dye and claim her.

"What?" Her gaze flitted to his, holding him there. The wind blew her ghostly tendrils around her gaunt face. For a moment, he saw a flash of someone else.

"I can't get warm. The fires- I can't feel them." Her voice was a ragged whisper. Begging, pleading for something she couldn't have- for something so basic. For the first time in their brief acquaintance, Ryndan saw the girl that Walden had spoken about. She was indeed young, now raped of her innocence and forced into horrors no one should bear witness to or act on. But he also saw the cold killer that had saved his life only that morning, that butchered and decimated the remains of the enemy unnecessarily. There was never any honour in what she had done, it was for the simple pleasure of doing so. Comparing the two different sides, he wasn't sure which was the one that was her true self now. He feared for his friend's sanity regarding this girl if her humanity ever became truly lost, and he wasn't sure if she wasn't already too far gone.

Looking into her near-white eyes, seeing her turmoil and pain, he had never felt so torn.

* * *

_Two days after the Battle for Light's Hope Chapel- Early evening._

I didn't attend the Mourning Service, it seemed, no, it _would_ be rude and near blasphemous to attend something so Holy. Especially when I was an atrocity, standing as the most opposite of everything the Dawn fought for. No, I would not burden them with my presence; they needed to grieve for their dead-a number which had grown a fraction in the aftermath of the Scourge onslaught. It was now late afternoon, the corpses had been gathered- both the Knights and the Dawn checking each broken body for the sign of a pulse.

I remembered fighting. The weight of the blades as Deathweaver pushed the hilts into my hands, barking to get out there. I had barely stepped onto the field before an uncontrollable desire for death had overwhelmed me. I was in control enough, it seemed, to determine friend from foe. My hands and feet moved of their own accord, dancing a deadly step to an unheard beat, paving a way through a river of blood. I had chosen my alliance on that field. Not that there had truly been a question of it. I had not met this Arthas in any of my memory, this supposed King I was to have sworn fealty to. I was not myself, Talia had said. She may have been right. By slaying the renegade knight on the field, I had shown my standings, who I sided with.

Scoffing, I looked down to the camp. I was sitting a way out, in an abandoned logging camp, it seemed. The Ebon Blade had not extended an offer to me to join their ranks and I had not sought one out. By saving the Elf, my duty was now sworn to the Dawn. Not out of any Holy revelation, but because I needed penance. I still heard dying screams, watched as tears of dread fall from life-leeched eyes. My mind would not let me have peace. I had killed more than two men. I had killed an innumerable amount. I could never be forgiven for this.

A soft resonance could be heard. Leaning against the rotted wooden pillar, I closed my eyes and listened. A hymn- I hummed along as it grew louder, but remaining just as reverent. It fell and rose, wept and became overjoyed. A song of Lament. Yes, I remembered it clearly, all the words coming to me as easy as, well, breathing to a living being might. The words were discomfortingly familiar, even if where I learned them was unknown to me.

"Cersae?"

Opening my eyes I saw Mort slouching towards me. His shirt and trousers were flawless, dressed with a leather waistcoat and daggers sheathed at his belt. He was the healthiest looking undead she had seen at the camp- out of the small handful that resided there anyway. I knew that I knew him, my mind would occasionally throw random images of him to me, like a teacher would with a child learning new words. I found his presence a small comfort in the raging tempest I was now mentally waging. If there was one thing that made sense in this confusion, it was someone from my 'past'. He kneeled beside me, face full of concern.

"What are you doing here, Little Girl?" his tone was as inquisitive as a pit-bull seeking meat. Not concern then, annoyance. It felt familiar. "You shouldn't be out here after today." I cocked an eyebrow and asked him his own question. His face contorted into something akin to a grimace. The visible skin on him was still intact, even if it had a dead hue to it, he didn't differ much now from the small dream-like flashbacks I witnessed. His hair seemed mostly down though, in my recollections, whereas now it was mostly kept in a tie.

"I'm coming to get satisfaction. Three Death Knights are to be executed after the Service and I intend to get a front row seat." His voice didn't hide the disdain towards my former soldiers. I didn't take offence- what right had I to be offended? I stood up, not caring that my already dirty clothes were now covered in dust.

"Well then, let's go get a good view."


	7. Welcome to the Argent Dawn

Sitting high up in the bowled Glade gave us both quite a good vantage point to view the executions. At least until the sun set.

Two had been performed so far, the first was a quiet affair- a bit of speech-making (inaudible from our 'seats'), some reshuffling on the platform where the entertainment was taking place and then a _whumf_ followed by a head roll. Pretty basic as far as beheading goes really. The second prisoner became inconsolable, or uncontrollable- I'm not sure. Either way ghastly moans and sounds loudly reverberated around the unhallowed grounds causing half of the small group down below to jump back in surprise or fear.

They had arrived not an hour ago, a group of ten or thereabouts, simply walking into the area in box formation. Mort and I had been perched in some dried out and dead undergrowth far uphill awaiting their arrival so we had a pretty good view. In the centre of their troupe were three figures- hooded, chained and damned. Four glaringly white tabards signified Argent Dawn representatives, whereas the bound-in-ugly-looking-armour-and-shiney-blue-eyes heralded the Ebon Blade lot. The prisoners were in underclothes or padding only, though at this point, I don't really think they would have cared. The last of their group was a mountain with a halberd ("Tauren, strong as they look- wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of that swing," Mort provided).

They had been dragged to the top of a plain stone square and each dragged to three of the four corners where Mort informed me they were tied to iron rings which once grounded cauldrons. I daren't ask what the cauldrons were used for. This gloomy place was more than enough creepy to signify that it was something not-so-friendly.

It was darkening quickly so the first execution was performed swiftly, no questions asked. The second… not so much. Once she heard her companion fall, hysteria took over and I realised her grotesque sounds was actually maniacal laughter. She had to be subdued by two retainers and the giant figure performing the deed moved forward to end it quickly before she grew worse. Her cackle resonated for a small while after her head stopped rolling.

It was dark now- too dark to attempt the third straight away so they fumbled around with torches and the like, making the situation look like some bizarre theatre act on stage. Even then this execution was dragging a little. Up until now, my undead companion had been wistfully silent, possibly revelling in each death as they dropped, but now he was becoming anxious and fidgety. There was some form of discussion going on down below and even I was becoming impatient with their procrastination. I made to say as much to Mort only to find he wasn't at my side anymore- he was half way down the hill.

"Bloody moron," I cursed and tentatively pressed forwards to follow him. I wasn't surprised he was away without my notice- a small _something_ inside me informing me that this was natural for him. I stepped over a branch, just missing that rock there-

_"Come on Edmund, keep up with me!" I laughed, oh how good it felt to stretch my legs!_

_The sun rose high and bright in the sky and I found I had to take my cloak off and roll up my shirt sleeves. With our good mood, I didn't notice my heavy bags, my aching feet, weary body or the shadowy figure that stepped into our path from behind a large stone. They had the sun haloing their figure like a celestial being from the books._

_He spoke. It was ugly, crude…almost guttural sounds that were …inhuman. I felt cold. Adjusting to the light shining in my eyes I saw why he sounded weird._

_It was a body. A corpse, to be exact. Dead…rotting…and walking right to us. Daggers flashed in the sunlight. I screamed._

_I ran._

A hand clamped over my mouth and the other around my abdomen brought me back to reality. Unable to get my bearings until Mort told me to calm down was very distracting before I realised I had moved positions- namely thirty or so feet's worth.

The Execution Party didn't seem to notice my tumble down the hill, apparently I had just dropped like a bag of rocks before he was able to catch me. Slowly releasing me, Mort stepped back, hands tentatively resting on my shoulders.

"What was that?" he demanded, voice raspy in its whisper. I wasn't even sure myself. Trying to recall the memory's details drew up blank but overall I just envisioned _green_ everywhere. I could only shake my head as the dream faded to nothing.

"-know a lot about the Citadel! I was stationed there, part of the elite-" The voice was echo-y and male, deep too. Attention lost on me, Mort had already skulked to a new spot to eavesdrop.

"Silence!" A slap of flesh-on-flesh was heard. There were the shapes of crates nearby and scattered assorted litter on the floor still. I moved carefully over what I could see as I made my way further into the abandoned ritual site, joining my Forsaken companion.

"They have a prisoner! I was among those who captured her! I will tell you anything-" Another blunt crack echoed accompanied with a pained cry. Ouch, this guy was not getting off lightly.

"A moment, if you please, Koltira."

"Thassarian." Deathweaver moved backwards, away from the last prisoner- I still couldn't see him through the small crowd. He must be on his knees. Or the floor. My head twinged in recognition at the Thassarian's name- another Lieutenant, my mind supplied. I nodded in acceptance of this information, earning a brief glance from Mort.

"Why should we believe your information over what we of the Ebon Blade already know?" A small shuffle was heard- I saw a head appear briefly-naked of a hood, twisting around watching everyone. An Elf, judging by those ears.

"I was at the Citadel, most recently- I have no loyalty to Arthas! I can help you attack it! Ask me anything! " the cries were pathetic and probably unnecessary, he was not surviving this night.

"And if we already know what we need for a full-frontal assault?" Thassarian's line of questioning gave little away about how much they really knew, I felt. I think it was more to see how much this prisoner would be willing to give up.

"You don't! You at Acherus don't know what is going on in Icecrown! The Lich King saw that all contingents were kept ignorant-"

"Lies!" Deathweaver cried, moving fast.

"Koltira! Stand down!" –I just noticed his sword was raised, bright runes gleaming in the firelight. It was magnificent…

_"Well done Cersae…you have successfully created your first runeblade weapon…Sow the seeds of chaos and destruction!"_

"Move aside, Thassarian!"

Apparently Deathweaver didn't like being called 'ignorant'. He lowered it, but did not sheath his blade.

"I swear I care not for the Scourge King! Let me live and I shall prove it! I- I ran from here out of fear that you would slay us all! I was forced into this nightmare!" The prisoner was rambling and we all knew it. Silence was the man's only reply. None of the standing few said anything. I was glad not to be in that man's position right now. His petition was either being disregarded or silently considered. The man begged for mercy again. This reaction, the whole of it he had begged so far, seemed almost… _human._ I was not the only person to notice this.

"Would you be willing to swear allegiance to the Ebon Blade and give up your life if you must in defence of its beliefs?" Thassarian asked gently. Mort grumbled something under his breath- I had forgotten he was there, so enraptured was I in the drama unfolding before.

"Yes- of course! I was made to kill my younger brothers- I want revenge! Please, let me live and I will tell you everything!" The pleading was pathetic. Thassarian regarded everyone present. The four Argent Dawn representatives, their white tabards shining, were watching quietly, seemingly content to let the Ebon Blade work out its own quarrels. An older man- grey hair and beard giving him the appearance of a wiseman- donning a very decorative tabard moved to whisper with Thassarian. I assumed this to be Fordring. There was nodding and murmuring amongst the group.

"Very well. You will live and pledge your allegiance to the Ebon Blade- "

"No. Not the Blade. Swear it to the Dawn, and that way if you turn traitor, then on their heads be it for letting you live." Deathweaver cut in. His sword was now strapped across his back and his stiff stance added levity to his hostile tone. Thassarian and the others present regarded him. Fordring nodded.

"The Argent Dawn accepts your allegiance and you will offer all information regarding Arthas' movements in Northrend that you know. You will commit to the Dawn for the rest of your days and hereby swear to our laws." He moved in front of the Death Knight, blocking what little view I had of him. "Will you pledge your life to the Argent Dawn and its associated Chapters of your own free will, wholly and fully?"

"I, Terowin Darksworn pledge my fidelity, soul and life to the service of the Argent Dawn for eternity." The voice was ragged and ageless, I still couldn't see this 'Terowin Darksworn'. Deathweaver made a noise of discontentment but it was ignored as Fordring moved forward and a rattle of iron being unchained was heard. The knight stood up tall, a few inches taller than Fordring, blue eyes glowing bright. The Highlord reached forward and grasped the Knight's hand- where a large, incandescent light emitted from the joining. I threw my arms up to conceal my eyes, burning where they had briefly caught the radiance lighting up the Glade. Squinting, when it seemed safe, I took a moment to regain focus. Fordring was now glowing- as was the elven man he still had grasped.

"Welcome to the Argent Dawn, Terowin."

Darksworn looked awed and defeated at the same time. I briefly wondered if he would regret trading one master for another.


	8. Arguments and Adjuration

 

 

_Ten days after The Battle for Light's Hope Chapel._

"I'm going to Northrend," I stated, not looking up from my small work pile.

"No, you're not." He didn't even hesitate in answering. No consideration required, it's a no, end-of-story.

"I'm not asking your permission, Mort. I'm going to Northrend." I folded the last few bandages carefully, settling them in their designated box. Talia left us lists like this to do overnight since we, the un-sleeping, had little else to do. She had an abundance of work, we had few people willing to allow us to help them…all in all, not a bad deal. Idleness did not sit well with me, you see.

"No you're not, you are coming with me to the Undercity. We're going to get you looked at to see if there's a way to reverse-"

"Mort, that's not happening." I said point blank.

"I will not hesitate to throw you over my shoulder, girl and drag you-"

"I promise it will not end well for you if you try." Coolly declaring this I looked directly at him to get my point across. Judging by the flinch he gave, it worked. I may not like being what I am now, but even so I'm not going to be told what to do. I returned to finishing the packing of the last of the medical supplies. All it needed was to be moved to the docks tomorrow for loading. Mort had also tentatively returned to his assortment of tasks and it wasn't hard to tell that he was pissed at me. It was a few moments of silence before he spoke again.

"Why?"

Why indeed. I barely understood why.

"To find Edmund." I said simply, picking the last crate up and moving it to the rest in the corner of the tent. He followed, mirroring my actions.

"Cers, the chances of you finding him in Northrend are –"

"I know that, Mort. But I'm not going to sit around here doing nothing while he's still out there-"

"You can come back to the Undercity! We can get you back to normal somehow! There has to be a way to reverse this state you're in, Little Girl. Edmund has travelled for _three years_ to find you, he can hold off a little longer, I'm sure, that's if he's even _alive._ He'd rather see you healthy and alive than this monstrous-" He cut off, no doubt realising his error. I refused to look at him, preferring to walk out the tent, ignoring his calls. The night was wearing on, a small handful of people still awake around camp, the majority sound asleep. Mostly, I heard snores in at least three of the tents I passed.

Knowing he would, Mort caught up to me and attempted to slow my pace. I walked up the hill and sat at the Chapel's broken stairs. For once the stars were visible.

"He's alive Mort. I'd know otherwise." A naïve ideal, perhaps, but given it felt to me as though it were only last week I had last lain eyes on him…Suppressing the urge to sigh, I became aware of Mort's presence seated beside me. He didn't say anything. Once again, silence wore on between us. It was never like this, I felt. There were times when we couldn't get words in edgeways over each other talking and now…

"The Highlands."

"What?" he inquired.

"The Arati Highlands," I explained. "That's where we first met."

"Yes, it is…well, it's the _Arathi_ Highlands, but close enough." He chuckled hollowly. "Do you remember that?" I nodded.

"Yes, when I fell down the hill a a week or so ago at the executions it was because I'd had a flashback. It was when I first met you- the way you just crept round from behind that standing-stone. I'd never been more terrified!" I chuckled in remembrance. It had been haunting me for a while now, the memory. I recalled the visions of green and over the past few days small bits and pieces starting connecting and fitting together again. I thought about the first night under the stars with me, him and Edmund, admiring the very same cosmic scenery tonight. That's when I noticed Mort staring at me, wide-eyed.

"What?" I sat up straight, wondering if I was under some threat of some sorts.

"Nothing. I just…well, you laughed."

I did?

"Oh." I heard something akin to a sigh coming from him.

"Why did this all have to happen?" he said, possibly to no one in particular because I wasn't sure how he wanted me to answer. I regarded him out of the corner of my eye. Grey skin, tinged blue and green here and there was still stretched dangerously thin over his skull but remained intact. The mop of dark hair he had no doubt painstakingly preserved since his Undeath was currently in a lot better shape than my drab tresses. His eyes seemed to be yellower than I expected whenever I looked to him, like I anticipated a … less freakish image _. He's changed_ , I hesitantly realised. And not for the better either- could Forsaken age? He tended to hold himself straight when walking, hunched when skulking and twisting in all sorts of ways when laughing his ass off at something. I'm pretty sure bones aren't supposed to crack _that often_ when moving, anyway. But right now, he just looked tired- a dire look on a corpse.

"Who knows, perhaps The Light has some greater plan for me," I answered wistfully, though I sincerely doubted it.

"Cersae, let me ask you something." I titled my head in his direction, curious as to the change in severity of his voice. "What exactly do…no, _when_ exactly do you remember to?"

What a strange question. I thought about it.

"Well…I remember Edmund…a library, or at least somewhere with lots of books." I thought hard again, allowing the images to come forward. "Err… oh, travelling with Edmund, and then we met with you in the Highlands. I know we went to the Undercity but I can't remember getting there or why…" I rattled off a few of the images I had stored in my brain. By resolving myself to find Edmund, I seemed to have unlocked some door in my mind and slowly but surely memories of him were starting to come back. Being bored and unable to rest gave me much time to reflect.

"Any recollection about your life before Edmund, at all?" I concentrated but nothing came to mind. I shook my head, earning another sigh.

"Edmund, do you remember what he looked like?" Mort asked gently. I made to reply and found my voice stuck in my throat. A blank face. Long hair surrounding it? Or was it short? How old was he? A small panic formed.

No…I didn't remember at all.

"He had…dark…hair?" I suggested tentatively. Mort just looked saddened. I had to say, I didn't like that I couldn't even recall someone so important from my past.

"It'll come back to you, I'm sure," I wasn't. "And about your life- just…when it does come back, don't tell anyone what you've remembered, no one but me. It will seem confusing, but it's important until I can explain it to you. Can you promise me that?" I was startled, what…on Azeroth could be so bad to remember that I wasn't to speak to anyone?

"Mort?"

"Just trust me, please Cersae, it's vital. I would tell you but I think you need to remember it on your own." He was looking at me hard, like he was trying to memorise my face. Then the tense mood was interrupted.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't my dear Elven Sister-in-arms and her sidekick ghoul." I know that drawl. I _hate_ that drawl. The owner of that echoed drawl deserved to die… _painfully_. Mort stood up to greet Darksworn, who was currently sauntering up the hill.

"Terowin." Mort greeted. We watched- or drew daggers in my case- as the Kaldorei Knight sauntered- yes, that's definitely a saunter right there- up towards us. Dark hair tied back and wearing the same standard military woolens as me he still looked quite fierce. The burning blue eyes probably helped that image though- something I was a little grateful I lacked.

"The one and only. What are you both doing at such a late hour? Praying, perhaps? Trying to save your souls from Eternal Damnation?" he laughed. He had been here a total of less than a minute and I'd near-murdered him in my mind about four times. He threw a smirk towards us, pale green skin garish in the moonlight.

Make that five deaths.

"Yes, we were and oh, look at the moon, our time is up. We're going, good luck with your penance and repenting." And with that I stood, dragging Mort by the bony wrist away from the looming Night Elf. Once we were out of earshot (a space very far away given the size of those ears) I dropped his hand and kicked a dead fire-pit nearby scattering the cindered remains.

"You two still fighting?" Mort pried. I _humphed_. Not three days after his near-execution did I finally meet him. Coming out of the Officer's tent following some important-looking officials, I had pulled him aside to ask about his thoughts on 'How to deal with your first Death Knight Turning'.

His response of " _Get over your self-pitying. You've committed the same atrocities as the rest of us_ , willingly _, and are not entitled to special pandering treatment. You're a Death Knight whether you like it or not, so start facing reality- you're just as tainted as the rest of us,"_ didn't go down terribly well with me and so I avoided him like a plague. Even so, he seemed to be taken with me and found great, sickening amusement in tormenting me with his very existence. Where I had hoped to seek a like-situated individual, instead I found one of the most condescending, annoying bastards on the face of the map.

"Something like that," I muttered. His simpering, wheedling personality seemed to have dried up after escaping death and I for one would prefer he just revert back to the baby he was that night. I don't know why he wasn't taken with Mort, probably just by association with me, but no respect was offered between them.

"Well, I'm needed to help finish of Dan's tallies of the smithies, so I'm going over yonder. I need to finish my own packing to head back to Lordaeron day after tomorrow. Can you head back and finish folding the linen for the hospital?" I nodded, looking forward to some personal space for a while. I turned to leave before Mort caught my arm.

"Oh, and one more thing. Dear to me or not, threaten me again, and you _will_ suffer for it. Understood _, Little Girl_?" and then he was gone. I stood on the spot for a few moments trying to gather my thoughts.

I didn't know if I was more scared of the idea of him being serious, or that the idea of him being physically capable of hurting me was laughable now.

What had I become, and when did I accept it so readily?

Four days later, boarding the one of the fourteen vessels bound for the North, I still didn't have any answers. Only more and more questions.

 

* * *

 


	9. Alternative Arrangements

_Three Weeks after the Battle for Light's Hope Chapel._

Six days of being at sea had worn off the novelty of ship life and Ryndan Firesworn, Knight-Captain of the Argent-Dawn-now-Crusade, middle child in a set of five and only son of the Firesworn bloodline was ready to land at any moment.

Luckily he didn't suffer the same sea-nausea that afflicted a minority of his brethren. Leaning against the bulwark rail of the quarterdeck gave him a good scope of the goings on. Some of it amused him, others impressed him (mainly those up in the masts-he will never understand how all those ropes work) and other antics displeased him- namely the vomitting.

"Gid tae see yi've still goat yer sea-legs there, lad." Ryndan allowed a small smile in spite of himself before straightening his face to greet his distinct company. A barrel was rolled up beside him and a figure clambered to sit atop it.

"After my first voyage, I made a vow to never travel by sea without them," he retorted back to the sea-faring dwarf. He was met with a booming laugh and fond punch to the shoulder.

"Aye, many years ago noo, wasn't it? Ah still remember the wee welpling that you were, all legs 'n' arms, wobblier than a newboarn calf!" A strip of white emerged from beneath a full bush of black hair. Suppressing a grin back, Ryndan favoured a grimace at the age-old memory of his first voyage, aged sixteen, still a 'whelpling' indeed. Grim, his dwarven companion on both- and many other- journeys, currently sat atop a barrel next to him peeling an orange. His shirt had long-since given up any semblance of pretending to be white and now settled for a faded parchment colour. A full head and beard of black hair was separated into two braids- 'wan fur the frunt 'n' wan fur the back, makes the drunken human-keelhauls a bit easier if the crew have summat tae hold on to.' Apparantly. Ryndan just took his word for it, never wanting to experience a 'drunken keelhaul'.

"Aye, though, it's no the worst 'hing that's happened to me. Thanks tae this beauty," Grim fondly patted the barrel he sat upon with one rough hand and gave a dramatic sigh, orange juice spluttering out of his mouth and soaking into his beard. "Tis yer best friend oot at sea. An' sometimes yer wurst enemy. In fact, wan time a few years back, ah woke up hangin' fae the top mast, rope wrapped aroun' me gullet- dressed in nuhin' but mah birthday suit wi' mah privates swingin' freer than a man at t' gallows and all mah hair shaved aff!" he pointed one stumpy finger at his head in mock horror. Ryndan found himself snorting at the unpleasant image.

"It took me months-naw, _years_ tae grow this back!" he stroked the long black braid resting on his chest almost as gently as one might a newborn. He laughed at the boatswain, never tiring of hearing such antics as those out at sea. It certainly took his mind off the more menial tasks that needed doing- like drills, exercises and partaking in Prayer services (all difficult to do on a busy deck). The deckhands had been very accommodating, declining offer of help to run the ship from the contingents on board, happy to sit and laugh with his men and women come nightfall exchanging tales and rum.

Ryndan kept mostly to his bunk at night, not favouring the cooler air, content to listen to the joyful noises above him. He knew that soon, such fun times would be far and few between- and that a number of his charges won't come back alive; a grim fact he was all too aware of, much like his only two superiors on the ship.

Looking across the deck, he saw Commander Ashwood and Commander-Lieutenant McGreaves deep in conversation. Despite being his next-in-line superiors on the ship, and also having a great respect for both of them, the Captain couldn't help but find the image comical.

Tall, slender and violet-skinned, Commander Nhuada Ashwood was a veteran of the Argent Dawn. She had been involved in many battles for the Alliance in her time- including a successful period (months, or so the stories go) overseeing and defending the long fought-over Lumber Camp in Ashenvale. Ryndan had been her subordinate for three years now and admired the Kaldorei woman greatly. Her current conversation partner however…A greying-dwarf, he scarce reached the top of her hips. Admittedly, she was tall for even a Kaldorei woman, but she never seemed like she was talking down at you. McGreaves appeared to be very severe. A Paladin for coming on forty-years, he had been around, experiencing and witnessing much. Even so, Ryndan wasn't sure that Commander Ashwood was younger than him by any means, no matter how youthful she appeared.

Almost as if he knew he was being observed McGreaves looked to Ryndan across the deck when the Commander's eyes wandered and threw him a rude gesture paired with a bold grin. Ryndan couldn't contain the snort that escaped at his superior's antics.

"That man's in charge o' how many on this ship?" Grim asked, not having missed the quick exchange. Observing deckhands as they scurried around deck and up the rigging, Ryndan did a mental headcount.

"Fifty-three for him including myself. Fifty-two for me and then fifty-four for Commander Ashwood including me and McGreaves." He had memorised the rosters for his ship, wanting to know exactly who _he_ was in charge of back at Light's Hope. He also knew the exact whereabouts of _those two_. Darksworn and the girl were currently aboard the ship closest starboard. In a reflex he turned to view said ship behind him.

Early afternoon placed the sun overhead as it made its way to the horizon for night, meaning no glare hindered his view of the three ships spaced out to the right. A few figures were seen moving in the distance atop the closest sister vessel. His mind wandered to the girl occasionally, mainly due to Walden. Before departing for the Undercity some ten days ago, the Forsaken had pleaded to his friend to look out for her; something that he was less than stellar about doing. But even so, there had been something in Walden's crooked voice that Ryndan couldn't simply ignore. The image of her at the campfire- dead and cold- was also haunting his waking hours when idle. Unable to explain the strange grief he felt at the memory, the Blood Elf found himself curious as to her life _before_ –

"Land, HO!"

Mirroring all heads on deck, Ryndan's turned to view the front of the ship. Sure enough, a long, misty shape was emerging from the North; a weary welcoming overshadowing their arrival.

For all the stories and tales of what lay on that continent, for now, Ryndan could only view it as earth, a large island that sat in the middle of entire ocean. It didn't seem quite so scary, sitting far away, looking towards it. Some cheered, others stared silent, the deckhands the only ones moving still. Land was in sight, and nervous apprehension didn't taste well with sea spray. Overall the overwhelming feeling of relief should have been the ultimate mood. But on that landmass lay the deadliest enemy and tyrant known to Azerothian history. And they were headed straight for it.

"Listen, Dan." Grim dropped his voice to a deep whisper, his normally laugh-lined face falling serious. "There're creatures in the Fjords that are nothing like ye've ever seen. They'll put the fear o' death in most men, and women" he nodded his head to a Sin'dorei woman who walked past, "and make ye wish ye'd never set foot upon them lands. I've seen them fae a long distance, they're huge. Ye need tae be careful, alreet? Promise me you'll no do ony'hin stupit." His mouth was a hard line, bushy eyebrows drawn to a furrow. Ryndan nodded.

"Alright, I'll promise. Thank you, friend." He clapped his hand on the dwarf's shoulder and regretted it as his palm was coated with sweat. Grim boomed a laugh and slid off the barrel. "See you aboot, Dan, got work needin' dae'in'" he called, rolling the barrel across the deck. Wiping his hand on his leather breeches, he stretched his long legs and stood, working a kink out in his lower back. Shading his eyes again, he looked to the ships to his right. They were far enough that only black silhouettes were seen moving on board unidentifiable, too far to carry a shouting conversation, but even so, the mass of white hair blowing at the side nearest was not unnoticed.

Nor were the small shapes in the far distance making their way towards them from the direction of Northrend.

* * *

A few hours later found them all up close and personal with Northrend. The Fjords cliff faces were in clear, visible sight. They loomed over, a challenge to the sea to break them down. The sea crashed and fought, but made barely a difference. _The sea is patient, ye ken, it might take months, years, decades or more, but in the end, land always succumbs to her,_ Grim had once told him _._ The chill had been evident for some time, most donning thick cloaks now, regardless of the afternoon sun bearing over in the west. Icy breath was visible everywhere. Fish were jumping, some small, some large, and once, even though he'd missed it personally, others claimed to have seen an enormous fish - _it was_ _bigger than the ship!_ -splashing in the sea. Even with the knowledge that they'd be landing soon, even if they were seeing this strange new world for the first time, no one was taking note of it as they drew nearer. In fact, the ships in line, all seven, had ground to a halt, anchored down.

Captain Firesworn currently sat below deck, seated around a large table in the Chartroom with three others, discussing the news just received; the projected landing site was no longer accessible.

Not an hour ago, the small shapes had evolved into a group of four rowboats, each containing not even a third of its capacity. Each person- whether they were sailor, Crusader or trader- were all shaken, exhausted and injured and bearing the same dire news. Apparently the Horde had taken control of the strand where the Argent Crusade had aimed to set up port on the northeast coast- thus resulting in them sinking two of the three forward ships; the flagship included.

The report from the escapees was a grim one. Shrouded in a low lying mist, the coast had been near invisible, and so two were anchored, awaiting its clearing before proceeding to unloading. And then they had attacked. Identified as Horde and hostile, the enemy tore into them. The third ship was bound for Port Valgarde and had broken earlier that morning from the group, unbeknownst of the tragedy befalling its sister ships. Upon reaching the seven still travelling, Captain Taylor immediately apprehended all of the survivors and insisted they see the medics on board- partially due to the injuries and beginnings of frostbite beginning to form and partially to stop panic spreading amongst the crew. Safely nestled in his quarters, they had received the news.

"There are survivors, you say?" Taylor asked, surprisingly calm. He was leaning forward, hands clasped in front of him on the table. Commander Ashwood was similar, with her long hands resting beneath her chin.

"Aye, sir, on the Strand. The officers forbade us to return, we had to come warn ye and the others." A gnome spoke, clearly holding back tears. "Sir, we can't leave them! The Horde will destroy them-"

"Calm yourself, seaman, they will not be forgotten. However, two of our ships, one being the Flagship have been brought down and there are eleven more on the way north, including these seven. You did well rowing out this far to warn us, go join your comrades in the bunks below deck. Oh, and keep this information among yourselves only, I have a fleet to handle and don't need cause for restlessness among the crews." The gnome and a draenei woman, who had remained silent throughout, nodded and left only having joined the Officers as they were the only two who were seemingly capable of talking at the time. Captain Taylor turned to the Officers.

"I must speak with the other Captains; alternative arrangements need to be made." He steepled his hands. "Word has been signalled to each ship to ask each Captain to come aboard to discuss this trouble. I wonder if they would have stood more or less of a chance had the third ship stayed…" He tightened his jaw, deep in thought. The Argent Crusaders merely observed, deferring to the Captain's knowledge in all things naval. From here on out, it was Taylor's call to organise the fleet as the most senior of the seven Captains currently travelling together. Ryndan guessed the man to be in his forties- a dark pinstriped grey beard was cleanly resting atop his chin, his face hard with lines and tanned skin. The Captain looked up sternly, small blue eyes nearly as deep as the sea they sailed on.

"The presence of the Horde is a surprise," he started, "we had information that their naval forces were near non-existent, never mind ahead of us and already established on land." He gave a pointed look to the Dawn representatives. "If they've captured the third ship or worse…" Commander Ashwood leaned forward, posture straight and strong. Her sabres sat sheathed across the back of her chair, never straying far from her person.

"The Dawn only passed on what information we had; it was not- _is_ not- our duty to spy on the Horde for the Alliance. We were not aware they were travelling north anytime soon, especially not to our proposed landing site. The ship descriptions however, match those of the Forsaken boats, specifically." Ryndan sucked in his breath. "The war being brought to Northrend is no secret, Captain Taylor. It is not a surprise that the Horde have jumped on this as quickly as the Alliance has. As a _neutral_ faction, we maintain peace with both. However, sailing under Alliance colours, even if for transport purposes only, without passing word to the Horde to hold fire, is a costly mistake on the Dawn's part. Nobody anticipated the Horde being a problem it would seem; a poor underestimation. None were seemingly prepared for this." She paused, letting her bright eyes look to each of the men. "Our task lies in advancing against Arthas and Arthas alone. It is extremely likely that both sides will be called upon when marching to The Lich King's fortress; we will need what numbers _both_ factions can supply. The hatred between the Horde and Alliance is not of our concern. Do not make it so when rescuing these stranded men and women. Are we understood, Captain Taylor?" her voice was steady and calm, but Ryndan knew through word-of-mouth that Commander Ashwood was not someone to defy or mess with. Her tone was quiet and dangerous.

"If a Horde dog stands in the way of saving my men, I will not hesitate to kill him, regardless of whether the Argent Dawn needs numbers or not. Those people are my priority over your request, Commander." He replied brusquely, hard eyes bearing into her own.

"Understandable. I would not ask you to risk your men to save someone who is causing direct harm, but, take caution, more casualties for the Horde and Alliance is less force against Arthas." She pressed. A knock at the door interrupted whatever retort Captain Taylor was preparing to give-

"Scuse me sir! T'other Cap'ns hiv arrived tae talk" Grim popped his head round the door, black beard visible before his face. "They're lookin' worried, sir."

Taylor nodded, "Thank you Boatswain, send them down."

All four stood up, Taylor remaining, unrolling a large vellum map onto the table while the Dawn took leave- McGreaves had been mysteriously quiet throughout the ordeal. They stood quietly atop the deck, watching the cabin door as tensely as the rest of the crew. Difference was, the crew were kept in ignorance for the time being about the situation, only the Officers and those who escaped the Horde onslaught knew current circumstance. Nearly an hour had passed, the sun was low in the sky, the chill turning to a frosty cold. The rowboats the other Captains had arrived on sat afloat either side of the ship, swaying on the waves in such a lulling way that as Ryndan leaned over the bulwark to watch them, he didn't notice that the Captains had finally exited the cabin until Taylor spoke from the centre of the quarterdeck.

"There's been an accident involving the Flagship, crew. Our initial landing site is no longer of use. Due to this, the current fleet shall split up. We're going to make port at Valgarde alongside _The Maid of the Sea_." He nodded to a stern looking woman on his right. "Two of the other ships will head west, to the Tundra," A couple of the Captains nodded in affirmative, "two shall sail to the Dragonblight coastline and one will remain out at sea to report to the remaining fleet upon their arrival over the following days. There is nothing to be alarmed about, we shall carry on as intended." Collectively, the crew seemed to deflate, happy that there was no cause for worry and set out back to work in preparation for sailing once more.

"What about the crew of the other three ships sir? Are they safe?" a voice called out from the back. Everyone present turned to the Captain, but he did not falter. He looked amongst the crowd. There were murmurs of worry and concern for their fellow seamen and women.

"There are casualties, and some are unable to travel." He paused, letting the information sink in. "It is unknown if any are dead. We shall plan further once we reach Valgarde, making sure we have extensive knowledge of the surrounding areas before we rescue them. They can survive until then, for they are of the Alliance! And when we have found them, we shall treat them to fine rum and a warm meal in their bellies!" The crew cheered in agreement, excitement and optimism in the air. _A good speech,_ Ryndan thought, though he was certain that there were Argent Dawn members aboard them also. Still, a little morale boost went in long favour to settle the crew. A few of the Dawn moved below deck and others headed to the kitchen area for stew. The Captains shook hands and muttered amongst themselves before departing and setting off to their respective vessels. Captain Taylor went to stand aloft.

Commander Ashwood muttered, "Well, I'll be damned"

"What's that, Commander?" McGreaves asked, tugging his braided beard.

She released a breath and ran a hand through her short, violet hair, bending an ear as she did. "He left out the part about the Horde, I was sure for certain he would mention it to rile the crew into thinking they had to mount a rescue mission immediately. He's actually playing it smart."

"With any luck then, the other Captains either talked him out of it or he simply made the decision to take care of this ship and its passengers first." Ryndan supplied, crossing his arms. He looked to the man in question, standing above them all at the wheel. A frown was evident on his face, it wasn't an easy thing to do; lying to those who put their lives in his trust, but that was what war was about- hard, uneasy decisions that had to be made every day. Sometimes they involved lies and pain, sometimes it's because it's 'in their best interests', and sometimes, there's just a lack of choice to do otherwise.

Thinking of Walden, who had travelled to the dark Undercity only two weeks before, Ryndan felt this more keenly than he'd liked. Even after years of friendship, would Walden have hidden any knowledge of a Forsaken expedition from him? And if so, were the intentions for the best, or for the Undercity?

Ryndan's mood felt as dark as the clouds now shading Northrend.

* * *


	10. A Northrend Greeting

Our row boat was sturdy and strong as we rowed upwards against a calm current. The icy cliffs towered above, shading us from any sunlight, the crack of sky above visible through the hazy mists. The main ship remained out at sea for the time being, Captain _whatever-her-name-was_ informing us that the main ship was advised not to attempt the Daggercap Canyon. Into one boat and straight onto another, each rowboat's departing time from the ship a solid half-hour after the previous one had left. I have to confess, I did not know the reason for the staggered leaving times initially, but rowing down the Fjords, the answer became all too soon clear.

We were the fifth rowboat to leave the ship, the last one for today as we viewed the low-lying sun. Each carried a handful of crew and passengers as well as some supplies. We each had to take our own luggage onto the rowboat- I had not had any until Lorik found me on deck before alighting the ship, pressing a bag into my hands and said one word- _Talia_. The bag was currently at my feet, containing who-knew-what.

I, as well as Terowin much to my chagrin, had taken the first shift in rowing the boat. It took us a while to coordinate our efforts with advice from the ship crewmembers riding alongside, and bickering between us, but it made the most sense as we were the strongest. We had rowed for an hour or so, judging by the setting sun, until we had crossed the sea to the Fjord inlet, before two deckhands took over seeing as they could steer through the fjords. Rowing straight was one thing, zig-zagging tight angles was, however, _not_ something I was a professional at doing (to my knowledge, at least). We kept up the same pace easily once we had fallen into rhythm, fading into our own minds while doing something so monotonous. When asked if we were tired or sore, a quick internal scan of my body revealed that no, I didn't feel fatigued at all.

Advantage of being a Death Knight number one, I suppose.

We paused at the mouth of the inlet. Passing the oars to the more-experienced, Terowin and I shifted to the back of the boat. Sitting forward facing, I couldn't help but stare at what lay in waiting for us the further we sailed inwards. We had seen the rising column of dying smoke from afar at sea, the source safely hidden among the twists and turns of the fjord, but had been assured that it was not trouble at Valgarde. No, as the icy cliffs faded into earthen walls, the fiery source was revealed to be one of the fleet's own ships. Many in the boat gasped, wide eyed and worried upon the initial sight. The horrified silence fell to disturbed chatter of fear as the realisation that this was one of their own ships fell heavily on them. I simply stared, the fire actively consuming the ship up high, eating away slowly enough to serve as the warning it was intended- _You are not welcome here._

How did it possibly get up so high…?

"Vrykul, damned scum," muttered Terowin to my left. He too eyed the ship, expression of disgust rather than the worried faces of our fellow travellers. I imagined I looked bored in comparison before realising I had voiced my question out loud.

"What are Vrykul?" I enquired. He raised a long eyebrow in my direction, but answered regardless. His grey, gaunt face annoyed me. So did his voice. And his general presence.

"They are giants, inhabitants of this land. They are found all over Northrend as far as I know. The Master has seen fit to attempt an alliance with such a race, which should be an indication to you how dangerous they are." He added with a pointed look.

"They're dangerous because they're large? Is that why He wants them?" I ventured. Ignoring his leering, I thought of the Night Elf beside me and Deathweaver, looming up above over me; how much taller than those two could they be?

"No. Arthas does not need allies; he is powerful enough on his own with the Scourge." He scoffed before leaning forward, resting his arms on his knees. "However, the Vrykul trouble him enough that he will seek an alliance from them to prevent them from turning on Him." He gave a small smirk.

"Why doesn't the Alliance or the Argent Daw- _Crusade_ seek to ally themselves with them? Wouldn't that be more advantageous?" called a gnome from near the front of the boat. Glancing forward I saw that the rest of the boat were listening intently to our conversation. Terowin laughed- a harsh noise to say the least, one that irritated.

"The Vrykul are as stupid as they are tall- they are barbarians with their clubs and furskins. They do not care for affairs or alliances- this is their land according them. They argue the territory and resources among their own tribes. Everyone else here is an intruder and is clearly not welcome!" he raised an arm upwards, indicating the decaying ship we passed underneath. A flaming piece of wood fell into the river behind us, splashing in steam as it cooled, adding to the severity of his statement. A few people gasped, but the theatricality was lost on me. I had to wonder if Terowin didn't time that or somehow made it happen to be so dramatic.

"I thought you said they were dangerous then? How can they be a threat to the Lich King if they're as stupid as you say?" a blood-elven woman chimed in, terror evident. Terowin regarded her with another trademark smirk. I had a feeling someone would want to wipe that from his face soon. With a large hammer. Twice.

"They are many, their clans and strongholds dotted all over. They might be at war with themselves, but they are trained warriors and a threat on their own if provoked. If they ever figure out that by making alliances with each other is enough to overthrow any alien armies en masse, then every non-Vrykul on this damned continent is doomed. Arthas, by siding with a few clans, keeps them divided and prevents that massive force from ever forming. Say what you will about the Lich King, but you cannot call him unintelligent; He figured out the politics of this land before the lands own occupants did!" He chuckled darkly, resting his chin on his hands, clearly enjoying the worrying theories he had just planted in these poor peoples' minds. The rest of the boat fell quiet as they contemplated his words. They were of little consequence to me; I was here for one reason- to find Edmund. Terowin's information was not relevant to my quest. The silence onboard lasted the rest of the journey

"Was the scaremongering really necessary?" I whispered, turning my head from my fellow travellers.

"This is the Frozen North, dear Sister-in-arms, I'm merely preparing them for what's truly out there. There are far worse creatures than Vrykul walking these lands," he said in a sing-song fashion. I was surprised that he had actually dropped his voice to reply. I was not surprised that that damned smirk of his was still plastered across his face.

"No need to exaggerate about them though," My hand waved upwards in a gesture of exasperation with the man, a scared crew was not an effective one. "I'm sure they're not _that_ big-"

He abruptly grabbed my free hand, engulfing it in his large one tightly. Stunned I watched as the man beside me leaned in close, jaw set and blue eyes determined.

"Let me tell you one thing about me, _Cersae_ , I do not lie. You will do well to remember that when faced against these beast-like brutes." He threw my hand away, choosing to watch out of the side of the boat. Only the sound of the oars slapping and cutting water was heard, the fire crackles fading as we pressed on. My hand was unable to move for the rest of the journey, but it was more his words that shook me a little- not that I'd let him know that.

The light eventually grew darker, the red glow from the blaze out of sight as we rounded another corner. Stars began appearing above, but starlight didn't aid the steering of the boat; soon the fjords would be difficult to navigate.

Well, more difficult.

Others drew their cloaks tight, huddling together for body warmth, puffs of breath evaporating into the night air. Terowin and I remained unaffected. We had been told not to light torches on the boat, to save the location becoming clear to any on-looking Vykrul. The mists drew thicker, causing distress on the rowboat, but soon we loomed into the bay, heralding our arrival at Port Valgarde.

* * *

"Would it not be wise to move port further away from such threats?" Ashwood nodded upwards at the cliffs opposites. Campfires and torchlight dotted above and across them ominously. Vice Admiral Keller shook his head, stalking forward, eyes shifting all over the new supplies as they piled up.

"No, we built this up with our bare hands. Blood and tears my friend, you understand the importance of that." He replied. His voice was gruff, no doubt from the shouting he did about the port, Ryndan didn't wonder.

"Of course, the Argent Crusade was built upon such sacrifice from the Dawn and the Silver Hand before it, but even so, are you not holding it out of stubbornness and pride? These… _monsters_ have the clear vantage point from above." Keller ceased walking, Ashwood and Ryndan with him. He turned abruptly, annoyance evident on his hardened features.

"Forgive me saying, Commander, while I appreciate your concerns for your men here, you have little understanding of how it operates. This is _my_ port and I have no intentions of giving it up until I am dead in this cold hard ground!" His statement cut off as someone saluted next to him.

"Vice Admiral- another boatsful has arrived, sir!" Keller turned to the dwarf who had approached the trio.

"Thank you Macalroy." The dwarf made to turn, but Keller laid a hand on his shoulder. "Tell me, would you give up this port because of those blasted giants up there raining hell on us day in day out, Macalroy?" The dwarf in question stood straight.

"No I would not sir! This is only major landing point this side of Northrend; it is needed for us to make headway inland! Valgarde mustn't fall!" He was very emphatic and quick to respond, Ryndan admired. Keller nodded, thanking and dismissing him- "You know the drill." He turned back to the Officers.

"The dwarf is right, it's one of two safe harbours that the Alliance has on this chunk of frozen hell- the other being a few hundred miles west of here-where your other ships're headed. We _cannot_ afford to lose this port. If Valgarde falls, our primary supply line into Northrend will cease to exist. We have no quarrel with the Dawn, Crusade-whichever you are- here, so I would appreciate you not butting your noses into how I run it or why I keep it here. Our only mission is to keep this port safe for trade and landings. As I understand it, the Dawn's own landing has not gone well, otherwise you would not be seeking refuge here." There was no accusation or mockery in his voice.

Ashwood grimaced, her mouth drawn into a hard line. They walked towards the largest bonfire in the centre of the camp. She sighed tiredly.

"Yes, you speak truth. The Horde have disrupted our plans to land in the north-east, taking two of our ships down with them, and these giants here have eradicated yet a third. This is a hard loss for us all, Vice Admiral."

"Aye, we noticed the ship entering too late to warn them, tragic business that. Our architects are drawing up plans for a watchtower further down the Fjords for such events. It's hard to determine on such ground that will give a good viewpoint but stay out of the way of the Vykrul, or so I'm told, it's all gibberish to me, otherwise we would have a bloody lighthouse instead already!" He drew a deep breath, letting it out in a cloud of cold air. "What of the survivors on the eastern coast? What are the plans for them?" The cold wind blew around them mildly, Ryndan's long ears were now numb. Unclasping his gauntleted hands from behind him, he had listened dutifully throughout the conversation, however, noting the ashen look of grief flash across his Commanding Officer's face, he stepped forward, answering in her stead.

"Captain Taylor wishes to converse with Captain Redfield of the _Maiden of the Sea_ when she arrives tomorrow about organising a rescue mission. As you know, they had to divide the fleet where necessary first earlier today before mounting one, and I believe they seek your knowledge of the surrounding environment before charging in. Do you have any information regarding the Horde Landings to the east?" To Ryndan's dismay, Keller shook his head.

"Nay, I don't, this is news to me an' all. I'll speak with the scouts when they return and offer whatever information they find to you as soon as I can. My first priority is the bastards hammering at my gates day-in-day-out however."

"We are unaware of how many supplies the stranded possess and so wish to start as soon as possible- how long before the scouts arrive back?" Ryndan enquired, anxious to mount a rescue by first light if able.

"Daily, from differing parts of the terrain. Tomorrow's report should be coming in from the north and the north-east the day after tomorrow. We shall know more then," Keller offered, sympathising with the Crusaders' worries. Grimacing in the firelight, Ryndan felt tense- he knew with decent rations and supplies his fellow soldiers could hold out for as long as necessary as well as caring for those travelling with them. However they were also under attack from a hostile threat with potentially many injured or worse. He felt that sleep would not come easy tonight for worry- a small blessing that he was glad that those in Port Valgarde did not know the true situation of their friends and companions across the land. He noted that while Commander Ashwood looked worn, Keller simply looked irritated; Ryndan wasn't sure if this was his typical expression or not, however.

"Those harpoons are giving us no end of grief and the archaeologists don't stop pestering me. I'll be honest, the situation here is critical at best. Perhaps you would care to lend a hand in securing the port further during your stay…?" He ventured curiously, almost hopefully. Ryndan turned to Ashwood, coupling his hands behind his back again. As his superior, and foremost in the port for the Crusade, this was her decision. She looked between the two men and nodded.

"Yes, Vice Admiral, the Argent Crusade will offer whatever help we can in thanks for harbouring us safely." She stated formally. To the Officers' surprise, Keller laughed loudly.

"Pun intended, Commander?" He chuckled. Realising what she'd said, Ryndan suppressed a snort and failed. Ashwood appeared puzzled for a moment, before blanching in realisation, hiding her face in her hands, groaning.

"Ah, you got to take a laugh where they come, they're far and few between up here in the north!" Keller offered, unable to wipe the grin from his face. Ashwood looked up, open-mouthed, before quirking into a smile and laughing too. Ryndan joined in, glad for the light reprieve of the last day.

The laughter was short lived as they watched the new arrivals to the port disembark from the latest rowboat. That should be the last one for tonight, the darkness shrouding any hopes of navigation up the inlet. His own had arrived second earlier this evening, his arms hurting surprisingly from his own shift at rowing. McGreaves was in the first boat and had taken to the inn uphill after unloading with an old 'war buddy' he hadn't seen in a while.

The most recent boat emptied and a yeoman tugged it along the dockside to tether it. The line of crew and ex-passengers trudged off of the landing pier, aching and tired from sitting in a boat in this cold. Macalroy was directing them as they passed, like he had with previous arrivals. Everyone seemed to be carrying bags or a crate off of the vessel, the dockworkers lending a hand in piling them appropriately where needed. Ryndan was impressed with the organisation of the port, despite being under constant attack.

Beside him, Commander Ashwood drew a sharp breath, her sharp eyes focussed and following the direction of her gaze, he soon saw why. The last of the newcomers walked at the back of the line. Two Death Knights, were walking side by side off of the pier. One possessed bright blue eyes shining in the dark, standing high above surrounding people, and the other with free white hair, flickering like a candle as she drew closer to the bonfire. She was looking around in small wonder. Suddenly the Commander swore, she turned quickly to Keller-

"I apologise Vice Admiral, you have offered us generous hospitality here and for that we are grateful, but I regret to say that I forgot to mention the presence of dea- ah, _former_ death knights among our ranks. If this offends you or your people I will see to it that they-"

"Calm yourself, Commander Ashwood." He too eyed the pair as they walked past a few feet away. They walked on, following the others up the hillside to the Tent-area behind the Inn. "These are not the first of Arthas' former lapdogs to pass this way and I doubt it to be the last. We've had a fair few sworn to the Alliance pass this way since a few weeks ago, when Arthas fled Light's Hope, and even breakaways from before that," he nodded to the two Crusaders. "Quiet enough, they never stayed long, each wanting to serve in the fight against their former enslaver. I don't give a damn if they're sincere in their new allegiance or not, if they're going to help keep my men safe then I'll gladly have them. You know as well as I do that not all of these… _Death Knights_ , joined the Black Blade, or whatever they call themselves. Others went crawling back to Stormwind at their own personal risk seeking reconciliation there for their crimes."

"To the Horde Capital, also?" Ryndan interjected. He may be sworn to the Argent Dawn-now-Crusade but he still felt a little loyalty to his birthed faction and in turn curiosity at its current state. Expressly, he watched as she passed by, following the directions like those who had arrived previous, oblivious to the scrutiny she was under. Perhaps it was the light, but her expression seemed strained.

"Most likely," Keller replied, scratching his beard. "There is not one person here who will hold prejudice against the individual, unless they have personal reason to. Even then, they will perform their primary duty first, alongside anyone else who is here for the same reasons. But anyway, a few have been accepted by His Royal Majesty into the Alliance ranks and we must respect that, regardless of our feelings. His edict is final, even if he's never been out here," He finished bitterly.

He drew a tired sigh. "Look, as long as they behave themselves, and follow your command to the letter while they're here, causing no trouble, then I have no problem with them. They'll have to work just as hard as everyone else here." He turned to look upwards at the overhanging Vykrul shelters. "I won't lie to you, the situation here is critical and we can use all the manpower you're able to muster. The Light knows we need all the help we can get to survive in this forsaken wasteland."

Looking upwards at the unwelcoming bonfires on the opposing cliff-faces, Ryndan reckoned that Keller was most likely right.

* * *

I actually felt _cold_ in the cot that I currently lay upon. I even shivered, pulling my threadbare cloak tighter. Up until now, I had been numb to all sensation, aware that I _should_ be feeling yet not really caring that I wasn't. The emergency tent sheltering me kept the breeze mostly out, but even so; it wasn't the source of my discomfort. Setting foot upon this land, my first step off of the pier and onto solid earth sent trembles throughout my body. It was unusual enough to concern me, but I dare not voice my worries to anyone. Had Talia been at Valgarde, I…might have gone to her for advice, but she was not on either ship remaining at the Fjords. I didn't know where she was.

I shook myself and stood, tugging off the boots I was assigned weeks ago at the Argent Camp. They had held out well given how much I wore them. Perched on the bed, fully dressed, I weighed my options. First:- stay inside alone, for whoever was my bunkmate had yet to appear if I was indeed assigned one, the cot opposite unused- or second: amuse myself out with.

Listening to the sounds of stifled movement in the port, murmurs and faint sounds, I opted for the former in an effort to make my behaviour seem normal. Back at the Argent camp, for I found strangely missing the small routine I had fallen into, I could work and labour night and day with no worries, thanks to Tal. She would leave me a list of things to do through the shift when she was sleeping and I would make my way down it. She called me a blessing for all the work I did, menial or not. I inwardly disagreed but let her fuss over me, it kept her happy.

For all it might leave me more time, being unable to sleep, it was certainly a pain finding things to keep me occupied or entertained. (Dis?)Advantage of being a Death Knight number two, I suppose.

Reaching under the low-lying cot, I pulled free a thick cloth sack. It was tied with drawstring and seemed sturdy enough. Lorik had said that Talia had packed it, I shouldn't be surprised but the idea of her thinking of me in this capacity, left me feeling uncomfortable. I physically shifted on the bed looking at it. After a solid minute or two of internally arguing about the benefits and reasons not to open this bag, I simply shrugged and emptied the contents on the sheets beside me.

It was an untidy bundle; perhaps tipping it all out wasn't a good idea. I picked up the thing nearest to me- a cloth heap of sorts. Unravelling it revealed a long bandage-type article. I had rolled enough in her tents that perhaps she thought of this as some keepsake or even a joke. I was unsure. It was wider and longer than the other bandages though, thicker too. And the bandages, once clean, were typically not this dark a shade of white. I put it back in the sack, not really understanding its significance.

The next few items were much smaller, and stable. A small box, once opened, revealed a thick (and slightly blunt) needle in a bobbin of thread. Looking to my over-used shirt and spying one or two holes, I could see the use in this. I rarely changed and these clothes wouldn't hold out forever. A small inkwell and quill accompanied some string-tied parchment with a small note on the front, asking me to practice writing. I picked up the quill, it feeling very foreign to me. I hadn't needed to mark anything the last few weeks, simply doing manual work, so I didn't know if I could write. I could read, _obviously_ , so perhaps I did possess the ability to communicate on paper… I decided to try it later, wanting something deliberate to write, rather than random scribbles. These joined the bandage and needlebox in the satchel.

The final article was a comb with a strand of plain black ribbon wrapped around it. It had many teeth and seemed quite fine. It was not ornate, but simply wooden and smooth. I was awed by it. My hand touched my hair of its own accord. It was probably a mess from this wind, I hadn't really noticed. But Talia had. She wanted me to remain tidy and neat _– "It's important for a lady! Especially in the medical profession to keep yer hair oot o' the way!"_ she had told me _._ Resisting the urge to give an irritated sigh I put it back in the bag with the rest of it, kicking the offending satchel back under the cot. Pulling on my leather boots I stomped outside, unfazed by the drizzle. Looking downhill I had a great overview of Port Valgarde and saw very little. For sometime late into the night it was still quite active. Treading downhill, stepping into mud as I went, I made my way to the dock, looking for something to do. Sitting idle was not doing much for me and I had little to think about on my own in the tent.

The first night in Port Valgarde left me feeling the loneliest I had been since awakening three weeks ago, and my chest felt disturbingly hollow at the pressure that came with solitude.


	11. The First Death

_She looks no different in death as in life_ , he thought gazing down upon her motionless body. Divested of shirt and bandaged around the sorry excuse for a torso, Ryndan surveyed her 'injury' and the disturbing lack of blood- a halberd to the waist was no laughing matter. It was merely a gaping hole in her side. Several inches wide, a clean wedge in her skin. And that wasn't even the most disturbing thing about this scene.

Not even two days into port and the harbour had come under fire once more. Out of their agreement with Keller, the Argent Crusade were aiding with the defence of Port Valgarde until further orders had been received from the Commanders in Dragonblight. She had been out on the frontlines with them, issued two old-looking swords and ragtag armour pieced together from bits and pieces that would fit. Initially she seemed to be holding her ground without any problem. About fifteen to twenty Vrykul from the village engaged in the assault, and he had been busy giving aid to one of the more novice Paladins caught up in a tryst. Darksworn was also wreaking havoc amidst the skirmish however he told Ryndan later on in private that he could have done more damage were there fewer Crusaders to get in his way- something of which Ryndan couldn't determine whether it was a threat or warning.

Argent-White intermingled with animal skins and Expedition-blue wherever he turned. The presence of Death-Red was slowly gaining ground whenever he looked away.

The majority of his taskforce had come to the stalwart aid of the Valgarde Defenders upon realising the encroaching threat earlier that day.

And what a threat they were. Grim had described them as giant- but they were easily twice the size of the largest man there. A few of his Crusaders had cried out in fear-induced exultation. Ryndan himself had been quite taken by surprise, the thundering behind the forest emerging into a gnome's worst nightmare. Gathering his wits quickly, he had been able to command his troops into getting a grip. It worked for the most part, horrified surprise being suppressed to deal with later. And then the fight was on.

So when he next turned to scan the battlefield for the person most in need of him, he was taken aback when the answer was her. Her swordcraft was poor and sloppy- that was evident from even this distance. She had missed several wide gaps in his defence already and he was gaining ground on her. One of the smallest Vrykul there, yet still towering at an estimated ten to twelve feet, by Ryndan's reckoning, she had been left to tackle him alone. He started to make his way across the field, pausing to staunch a critical wound on a fellow Crusader and calling on The Light for aid. His impatience grew as he started to move once more; she was getting deeper in trouble. Having lodged one of her swords in her opponent's shoulder, it wouldn't come free for all the braids and hair it had entangled in. Swiftly avoiding another swing at her and ultimately giving up retrieval of her sword, she jumped backwards and stumbled over.

He was running faster, dodging clashing bodies, a group of four-on-one as they confused the Vrykul with their taunts and jeers. The cold-infused earth was hard beneath his plated feet as he watched the foreign halberd throw the remaining sword away. She was defenceless, and struggling to get away. He didn't see her panic, but there was nothing he could do to get there any quicker as the blade swung towards her.

It would have been a worse injury if not for another crashing into the Vrykul, throwing off his trajectory. He reached them as the Crusader smashed his shield-edge upwards of the Vrykul's face, causing him to stumble. Ryndan called upon The Light once more and with Holy Strength, plunged his blade deep into the chest of the giant. He was dead instantly. Throwing a nod at the now-identified young Sergeant Edrikson, Ryndan watched as he went to aid in the slaying of the last-standing before turning to her.

She was dead.

Even now in the tent he recalled how white her eyes had been – no blank iris visible, just a milky gauze settled over each eyeball staring into the sky. She laid, the earth mingling into her grey-white hair almost giving the illusion of being swallowed up by the ground. And the halberd had been jutting a few inches into her waist, armour torn like parchment.

He didn't want to dwell on how scared he had been in that moment, preferring to concentrate on her injuries, if indeed there was anything to be done.

"She'll wake up in a while, either the shock possibly knocked her out or it is trying to tap into the healing abilities of hers for such a large wound. I can't say which, but she's not dead," Darksworn assured them. Lorik, Terowin, himself and Yazmina- the Lead Healer of the Port- stood in an isolation tent gathered around her still form.

"I do not like this feeling," Yazmina indicated towards the girl, having already plainly stated that not healing someone injured was resting uneasily on her. And she had also commented on Cersae's very grotesque body- something he was going to discuss later with her in private.

"Come, let us leave her to heal," Ryndan suggested, though his tone wasn't going to brook an argument, not today. He was too tired and quite frankly angry to deal with it. When and if she awoke, he was going to verbally thrash her and then perhaps physically thrash her too for her stupidity.

"I will sit with her for when she awakes," Lorik commented. The Draenei rarely showed opposition, however Ryndan knew him well enough that he meant no ill intent. He nodded and the other three left quietly, the odd pair remaining in the tent with no other sound but the Shaman's breathing to listen to.

* * *

If there was one thing I learned from my first grave injury, it was that I was afraid.

Waking up to a … _a void_ terrified me. I saw nothing, I _felt_ nothing. It hadn't even occurred to me that I could die on that field as I went charging in, swords in each hand. Not even three days on land and _I had died_.

I could almost _hear_ the smirk Terowin must have on his face.

I saw the enormous man as he had charged me, hell bent on separating my head from my shoulders. He was tailing at the back of a moderately sized group that had roared their descent onto the port. Most of the seasoned and trained fighters- both Crusaders and Defenders alike, by the looks of it, had ran to meet them upfront, leaving me and the runt of the pack to square off. No matter how I parried, no matter how hard I thrust or swung, my swords wouldn't listen to me. My arms weren't working properly- had I not torn down a goodly number at Light's Hope Chapel against the Scourge onslaught? Had I not saved Firesworn from meeting our maker? I had, so why was fighting this opponent any different? He had easily overcome me and I had been unable to do anything against him.

And here I was now, my personal mission incomplete, dead to the world with nothing else to torment me but my own fears and hazy memories. A moment of thinking allowed myself a small revelation; I wanted to _feel_ again when I died. Perhaps an inner peace or rest…even damnation would suffice. This emotionless existence was taxing on me, if I had possessed a soul, it would have felt tired.

I recalled seeing Mort for the first time again and having the feeling of joy being forcibly repressed by something unseen, disallowing even the smallest hint of happiness at our reunion. Remembering Edmund brought me nothing but the idea that I must seek him and end his search once and for all- and then to end me. I couldn't feel sadness at our parting or even grief at the idea of his death when Mort hinted at the possibility. My death was something I had looked forward to, welcomed even. Perhaps then I would have been free, as would he and all my unknown crimes be repented for. Now…now there was nothing.

All my vision portrayed to me was void. Emptiness. A blank, never-ending space. The feeling of abandonment was weighing greatly on me in this vacant wasteland. I was alone in a dreaded state, not even welcomed to a Damned Afterlife, sentenced to this colourless limbo. Perhaps this was my punishment; to be driven mad by my own memories and torments. The idea of it shook me to my core, I was _terrified-_

"Ah, you have awakened." Blinking, I turned my head to see _Lorik_ of all people.

And he was s _ewing._

I watched as he pulled the needle through the fabric, tugging it gently. I could only stare at the strange sight, my mind refusing to make sense of this.

"What?" it was the only logical, intelligent response I could come up with. The hand paused in its task, black eyes regarding me.

"You are injured. I am mending your shirt." Said fabric was lifted in indication and I indeed recognised the filthy over-shirt as my own. But, I was still perturbed. Glancing upwards, the vision of the empty expanse greeted me once more- only for it to rustle slightly at the wind outside.

 _It was the tent canvas_.

I had woken up in my cot, not even aware I had passed consciousness. Throwing my arm over my eyes in unguarded relief, I barked a harsh laugh, silently thanking whatever Deity had decided to spare my pathetic self.

I decided it was perhaps better to not overestimate my own abilities in future; the fear of being so close to death lingered on me longer than I cared to admit. Combined with the unsettled feeling I had been exposed to since setting foot on land, I was becoming something of a poor excuse for a Death Knight- and I didn't know if that was a good or bad thing.

* * *


	12. Premature Hope

"The good news is that the majority of your people are mostly unharmed. The bad news is that they're holding off against the Horde and losing."

Sitting around a table in a private room in the inn, three Argent Crusade officers and three of the Valiance Expedition discussed the current situation. It had been two days since their landing in Northrend, the Crusade's first battle with the native giants only earlier that day. Ryndan was tired, aching and troubled.

Deep into the night, Vice Admiral Keller relayed the news of the Scout's report as soon as it was received; the Argent Crusade Captain had nearly made it to his cot tonight before being summoned. Nearly.

"Losin' how?" asked McGreaves, his greying eyebrows furrowed deep.

"According to the report, they've managed to salvage most of the wreckage to build a barricade between them and the Horde. There seems to be a few injured, but the scouts couldn't climb down the cliff-face to speak with them without risking injury, and I'm sorry, but we need these reports desperately." A faint murmur of discontent and agreement went through the five. Ryndan knew he was right, without the reports a rescue mission couldn't be mounted, but even so, just talking with the stranded would be a boon to their hope.

"Scout Valroy said she tried to signal them but was interrupted by a Horde patrol," Keller said. Ryndan made a mental note to personally thank her for bringing this information in earlier than expected- she was supposedly due tomorrow around midday but had left her post early to arrive tonight to deliver this information. She may have saved many lives.

"And this chart is accurate?" Ashwood indicated to an incredibly detailed map laying on the table.

The Howling Fjords seemed even larger than Ryndan imagined admiring the illustrated vellum. Small objects rested atop the map, enacting The Stranded's current position and situation far on the north east corner; the initial targeted landing site of the Argent Crusade and Valiance Expedition. Other items and hand-written notes represented the whereabouts of various other settlements in the vicinity. 'Westguard Keep' to the west and a 'Fort Wildervar' to the north were marked in fashionable, printed letters. Due south of the central 'Valgarde' was a written scrawl of 'Unnamed Horde encampment'. Similar to this now marked the Horde site to the north-east. Red crosses symbolised known Vrykul towns and outposts.

"Down to a _T_ , Valroy is one of our top scouts and her information has never failed to be correct. She reports no sign of the Forsaken fleet, but a dirigible seems to be in use at the Horde base."

"Whit in the name o' The Light is a ' _der-i-j-abul'_?" McGreaves scoffed, his accented tongue tripping on the word.

"A large flying balloon-ship, from what I've heard," spoke Captain Taylor. He was leaning far back in his chair, fatigued from the past two days. Beside him sat a stern looking woman in perhaps her fifties; Captain Redfield of _The Maiden of the Sea_. Both had arrived yesterday morning in order to discuss this situation. She was rather quiet, Ryndan thought, as she only gave words of greeting when arriving and saying little else.

"A _balloon?_ Y'serious? How cun it fly, eh? That's just daft, it'd pop at ony moment!" His dwarven superior looked incredulous at the idea, prompting Taylor to launch into an explanation of the theory behind such a feat. Ryndan had never seen a dirigible before, but his elder sisters had once told him of such a vehicle upon returning from a trip to Lordaeron before. McGreaves didn't seem to grasp the concept very well, seemingly blasphemous to someone of a race that preferred to burrow into the earth.

" _Gentleman_ , I would prefer to discuss vehicular aeromechanics at another time, if you please," Commander Ashwood chided. The men hushed and turned their attention back to the map, looking a little sheepish, much to Ryndan's amusement. Content that peace was restored, Ashwood stood up and spread her long hands lightly over the map, tracing a route from Valgarde, through the fjord inlet and following along the eastern coast north.

"How long would this take to traverse?" she asked directly of the two Naval commanders. Their chairs creaked as they both leaned forward, regarding her route carefully.

"Depending on the ice, a day, perhaps. Longer if we have to cut our way through icesheets or sail around them." Redfield stated. Taylor nodded.

"Aye, we've got the equipment to break it if needed, but it would take longer."

"So this is doable? Is tomorrow too soon?" Ashwood asked eagerly. Focussed intently on the two, Ryndan hoped the answer would be 'no'.

"Unfortunately, yes. I have four ships arriving any time between now and tomorrow carrying livestock that I need to redirect accordingly. Once those ships are sent on their way you will have my, Liz's and Cray's ships for transport. Two days from now would be best, I'm afraid," Taylor grimaced, understanding the frustration of waiting. Ryndan's kaldorei Commander gave no impression of irritation, only gratitude.

"Very well, I will ask for volunteers among the Crusaders tomorrow and leave the rest here in defence of the port. Thank you Captains and Vice Admiral, your cooperation and help has been well received. May The Light bless you," she finished, pushing her chair back. The rest of her company nodded in respect and watched her leave the warm room. As cosy as his furs were to keep him insulated at night, there was nothing quite like a warm fire that the inn offered.

"She's dealing with it well," Taylor murmured. McGreaves grunted and jumped off of his chair.

"Aye, she's a fierce warrior an' an even fiercer wummin," he said. Ryndan watched his commanding officer waddle over to another table. Wine, bread and cheese had been lain out for them but none were so hungry as to feast until business was dealt with. Feeling his own stomach grumble, Ryndan stood to fetch something also. It had been a long day and he had not been able to stop since breakfast, not with the attack and the aftermath. Battle normally drained his appetite. However, he couldn't recall the last time Commander Ashwood ate.

Ryndan felt sore on her behalf. It had been soon revealed among the troops that the Commander's younger brother had been on the ship bound for Valgarde; the one that now hung as a crude talisman to warn intruders. Loss was a large part of the game of war, and there were two ways to deal with it. Let the grief consume you or channel the grief elsewhere- like on the battlefield. Ryndan knew from experience how often those two lines crossed paths and blurred into each other, though.

The third option was to disallow anyone close to you in the ranks to save the grief from becoming a reality, but more often than not it was an impossible task. Especially when sharing such close quarters with so many fellow soldiers. Ryndan sat down with his meagre meal.

"What are the Crusade's plans?" Keller voiced in the sombre silence.

"Awaiting orders. The ships with the most senior of the Crusade including Highlord Fordring were forwarded to Dragonblight to take refuge in Wintergarde. They will plan what to do with us scattered like this and inform us in due course," Ryndan supplied. It was simply a waiting game. It could take up to a month or more to receive word, Ashwood had told him. The terrain, attack on the flagships and loss of numbers adding in more complications to the overall plan. They hadn't even reached Northrend properly before the dice started to roll poorly for them.

"And the Ebon Blade?" Now _there_ was a good question.

"Making their own way here, apparently. They have a few Crusaders with them, but since they donated more than three quarters of their ore, armour and weaponry to the Argent Crusade's use, they're serious in their alliance. They intend to seek out the runaways and meet up with us later. From what I was informed of, the most direct route into Icecrown is via the north of Dragonblight," Ryndan pointed to the area marked so in the map, trailing his finger up to the passage in the north. "The rough idea at the time of departure was to establish our foothold on Northrend here," he indicated to the northeast, "and push our way west and north to this passage." However that was now no longer an option, leaving everyone to wonder what the new strategy was going to be. Right now he was just going to concentrate on training the troops in combat and keeping their exercises up. McGreaves was in charge of their more religious education and overseeing the prayers

Nodding his respects to his elders, Ryndan left the room. A tray of ale was on its way up to them as compliments from the bar, _or perhaps even Ashwood_ he speculated, eyeing five tankards instead of six. Their number now down to four, he was sure that McGreaves would have his share instead.

* * *

Colliding with a body unseen caused me to fall back a few steps in the mud, dirtying me further than I already was.

"Oi, watch it, will ya?"

Ignoring the woman's comment I pushed past her, continuing up the hill to my intended destination, slightly conscious of the dirt now splattered up my breeches and caking my leather boots.

Having been just under a week in Port Valgarde, I had to say it had been very boring.

My 'job' mainly entailed goods-moving and debris-clearing. Inhuman strength appeared to have its pros as I was designated into the labourer taskforce of the harbour, but I was kept busy enough. My current assignment had me transferring dried goods and cheese-filled crates from the piers to the tavern. Most people kept out of my path, having easily been identified as 'one of those' from the offset. It suited me fine, I kept to myself and my tent when not needed. Now permanently off the 'front-lines' of the Port after my fiasco two days in (and good grief, Firesworn had ripped into me about _that_ ), I found myself growing even more restless as time wore on. The sound of blade on blade had never sounded so enticing as when I was no longer able to participate in it. Now whenever a raid happens upon the port, I bury myself into the back of it to save the sounds of Vrykul dying tempting me into the fray.

My armour was broken beyond repair- not that there had been much to it anyway. My 'injury' had healed before I had awoken, according to Lorik. Checking it soon after coming to, I had seen nothing but a thin white line on my waist where the halberd had struck.

After giving me a berating of a lifetime, the _Grandiose Captain Firesworn_ had told me straight up that I was in the way on the battlefield.

_"You are a liability and I will_ not _have Crusaders risk their lives for your carelessness. This incident is evident of your immaturity on the battlefield. Had Edrikson not saved you, risking his own neck to take down the Vykrul, you and I would not be having this conversation,"_ he had said.

I had been more than lost for words at his verbal onslaught. Not-so gently reminding the long-eared git that I had been the one to save him at Light's Hope, I had been disregarded anyway.  
 _  
"You seem to have forgotten that it's your sorry ass I saved at Light's Hope!"_ I had jabbed my finger at his chest- which sat eye level with me- in indignation _. "I did not go out there to screw up deliberately, and I sure_ as hell _couldn't care about how many Crusaders saved me because_ I'm not worth it _! So back off with your crass commentary!_ "

He had grabbed my pointed hand, bending low to meet my eyes. His sharp eyes had glowed ominously green as they stared at me hard.

_"Listen here_ girl _, the only reason I tolerate you is on the word of Walden, but he's not here and_ I _am your Superior therefore in charge of you. A stunt like that from one of my men would have you shipped and demoted._ You _however, reside at the bottom of the chain as it is. You are not, and I repeat,_ not _going back on the frontlines until you can prove to me that you are capable of holding your own."_

His voice had been deadly quiet and the only other sound following his speech was his heavy breathing . Glancing away, he had started a little, releasing his hand from where neither of us had noticed; my left arm that he grabbed in his anger. Standing tall, all contact between us lost, he'd turned swiftly out of the infirmary tent leaving me to seethe. With hindsight, I could see why I shouldn't be fighting, having reached a similar conclusion about my mortality after regaining conscious. Even so, he had pissed me off.

I was livid for the rest of the day following. Seething in my tent that night I had vowed to get the better of him, to show him I was not as low as he made me out to be.

A day and an awkward conversation (or semi-interrogation on my part) with Lorik later, I had found myself standing outside of a slightly-fancier tent than my own, trying to talk myself into doing what I was here to do. After the previous day's incident and some calming down of my own, I reckoned that I should at least thank the soldier who risked his life for me- (or at least I told myself that's what Tal would tell me to do). Lorik was kind enough to listen to my mumbled request and spoke on my behalf with Captain Too-tall-for-his-own-good, later coming back with a name and tent allocation- one _Sergeant Edrikson_ , tent number thirty six. And here I found myself. Soldiers seemed to have little more spacious tents depending on rank, or so I could gather with comparing this one to my own shabby little pegged-down-sheet. There was one little problem however- I had had no idea what to say to him.

_"Hello, you saved my life yesterday, cheers."_

_"Greetings, many thanks to you and your kin for risking yourself for my being."_

_"Hail, we are Argent brethren and thou hast risked thine own life for mine unworthy soul, you have mine eternal gratitude."_

All of which would have been responses that I'm sure that the Highlord of the Argent Crusade himself would be proud of; however, my current speech capabilities whenever anyone walked past me resided of _'umm_ '. Eventually, stone-cold-determination to one-up Firesworn won out and I'd moved to the tent flap, announcing my entrance loudly and clearly- only to find the tent empty.

Of course.

Two cots, barely three feet between them were neatly made. A rough wooden chest stood at the top of one cot, the other had plate armour stack neatly on top of it, recently polished judging by the nearby rags. A washbowl- chipped around the edge- and soft shoes poke out from underneath the left cot, as well as a hessian sack. All in all, a decent well-equipped tent. It just lacked one thing- its occupants and one in particular.

I returned to the tent two days afterwards to the same result and concluded that I would just have to find Edrikson by accident. I wasn't going to be asking Firesworn at any rate where he was. I had at least tried so that's score one to me in the good-moral-character department. We haven't spoken since the chastising and we avoided each other happily in the meanwhile. Now, six days after landing in Northrend I was allocated into doing the menial, labour work leading a boring, uneventful existence.

Shifting the dried goods crates in my arms, I walked around the rear of the inn. Swiftly entering the backdoor and depositing my crate in the kitchens, not stopping for thanks, I exited to a drizzle of rain. Judging by the dark clouds overhead, the Port was due in for a long, wet afternoon. Not bothered, I made my way to the forges, eager for work to give myself something to do. Many still milled about in the rain, some donning cloaks after grimacing upwards. Draped in my trademark plain shirt and breeches, I must have stood out somewhat to those who needed to care for their health. Wet or not, I wasn't likely to catch a cold. Wherever I walked I received a wide berth.

The smithies waved me away gruffly so I offered a shrug in return. The gryphon master didn't need any feed brought up and the engineers…kept to themselves really. My hands were twitching with unease and boredom. I wasn't even allowed to participate in the Argent's practice drills and daily exercises. Damned Firesworn… Terowin had approached me soon after, all smirk and smug, offering to train me instead, but I simply told him where he could shove his offer and left even more irritated than I'd been with the Captain.

"Oh, it's you again," stated a feminine voice, directed to me it seemed. I turned to see the woman I had bumped into earlier. Even though she stood a good few inches taller than me, had _quite_ a noticeable bust, and an ugly purple burn trailing down one side of her face, it was her bright orange hair gathered in a high-tail that drew my eyes first. _By the Light_ that was garish.

"Yes, it's me. May I help you?" Tal would be _so_ proud of my manners. She shifted her weight onto one foot, jutted a hip out and crossed her arms.

A business stance if I ever saw one.

"Yeah, I heard there was Death Knight Woman in port; I just didn't notice it was you earlier beneath those crates. I've never seen a female Knight before, all the others passing through have been men. You're still a girl, really, aren't you? And an Elf to boot, go figure," she said absently, not hiding her wandering eye up and down my body.

"Look here-" I started as she cut across me, uninterested;

"Huh, you don't have that echo that the others did…your voice sounds totally normal-well, mostly, a bit croaky there. Why is that? Is it because you're female?" she leaned in to get a closer look at me.

"I- what?" She spoke _really_ fast.

"Or are you _really_ a Death Knight? Maybe you're just really ill, I mean look at you, good grief you need to eat." Who the hell does she think she is? _Was she still eyeing me_? Manners be damned.

"Listen here, you, I don't need to-"

"Is your name Cersae?" That drew me up short. I just gaped at her. If the barrage of questions wasn't enough to disarm me, then her knowledge of me was.

"How did you-?"

"So it is you…" she commented quietly. _'It's me'_? Is this woman even sane? I realised I looked like a fish before answering.

"What on earth are you- do you know what, never mind. I'm not here to be ogled at or interrogated." I pushed past her for the second time that day, totally unprepared for;

"You're just like he described, you know." I stopped dead, the rain falling down my neck and back. She …didn't mean…?

"Like _who_ described?"

"When I caught wind of a Death Knight seeking someone of his name…well I had to come see." She pursed her lips in thought.

"Who?" I demanded, I mean, she couldn't mean... She gave an all-too-amused grin in my direction. This woman was really pissing me off.

"Ed."

What?

She couldn't be serious. She said it so non-chalantly that I nearly, _nearly_ dismissed it.

"You don't know him." I challenged. Something small sparked in my chest, like a piece of tinder trying to light- I tried to quash it.

"Oh sure I do, hon. In fact I'm _very_ familiar with him." It was a lie. I hadn't made it a secret that I was seeking him out in the Port. I had asked the few willing to converse with me if they could offer any information on the man. I knew it to be a bit of a long shot since first, the person being asked would have had to been in port for a long time. Second, said person would need to have _met_ Edmund when he passed through here (which according to Mort, was his first destination in Northrend). And third it relied on the person _actually remembering_ a man out of many passer-throughs that came into port any time in the last year or so.

Alright, so it's a _very_ long shot, I know.

"I don't believe you," I said and made to move once more. I was getting tired of her games now.

"Taller than me by a few inches, dark, shaggy hair, shoulder length. Gorgeous brown eyes and a voice that could buckle your knees." She drifted off giving a dreamy look. Not _quite_ the description I'd use but it was close…His face appeared more and more often lately in my mind, the details becoming sharper.

"You forgot the long scar across his nose and cheek," I lied. She threw her head back and just laughed at me.

"He didn't have a scar, dear; just a nose that looked like it had been broken once-too-often. He had a long one crossing his chest from shoulder to hip though." She added thoughtfully, tapping her chin. By the Light, she _did_ know him. I slowly turned to regard her. The rain had grown heavier but she seemed undisturbed by the soaking her faded white shirt was undergoing. Her face looked a little sinister with the marred skin of her own.

"Where is he?" is all I said. She simply smiled at me and waved a finger in my direction.

"Ah, ah, ah, I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine first. I mean that figuratively, of course, but I'm always up for it in practice," she winked, she _actually winked_ at me.

Unable to protest, surprised as I was, she linked arms with me and dragged me away, chattering all the while about the Port and weather. I followed along compliently, not sure who or _what_ this woman was, only that she might have the information I needed on Edmund- and that was more important than anything I could possibly suffer with this woman.

And so I fell in lot with Luciya, master engineer, infamous in Port Valgarde and the biggest pain in my neck since Terowin Darksworn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Luci, she's so fun to write. So _sassy_.
> 
> On another note, as you may have surmised I stick quite close to some quest lines in Northrend- it may refresh your memory/help with the story if you were interested enough if you revisited them.


	13. Of Priests and Prostitutes

_Eight days after arriving in Northrend.  
_  
She was a whore. Or at least that was the gist of her description of what she did in Port Valgarde. An engineer officially, Luciya would happily accompany anyone- and she meant nearly _anyone_ \- by payment of the most bizarre: fresh fruit.

That was her primary payment method, I had been told. Fresh fruit was hard to acquire in a new land, especially one so wintery where crops were hard to cultivate- and being a non-meat eater she valued it highly. So people in port would buy some from the traders in secret whenever new ships drew into bay before the official unloading just to spend a night in her company. She also accepted rich materials ("Silk is the best"), jewellery ("Some fine metal to be smelted there") and on the odd occasion- _poetry._

"I don't understand the poetry part," Father Favian commented, taking a bite of, what looked to be, stale bread.

"She's a hopeless romantic, is our Luci. Read her the right words and she'll swoon like a fairy tale heroine," Bart interjected, ignoring the glare from 'Luci''.

Unsure as to how I found myself at night with this group, all I could do was listen to their familiarity. Two prostitutes, a Cleric from the Crusade, a quiet hunched-over dwarf, a former Knight-Commander to the Lich King and a _not-quite-a-Death-Knight_ Death Knight sitting around a campfire enjoying each other's company, eating broth and mending clothes.

The Cleric was a surprise.

Terowin and I had an uneasy truce; not officially 'friends' in any form of the word, but simply putting up with each other's company due to the fact that few others would. It was a better-of-the-two-evils situation with the alternative being sitting alone in my poxy tent with bugger all to do. He wasn't there for me anyway- he was there for Luciya and her _assets._

"So, by pleasuring others, you keep peace in Valgarde?" the Cleric surmised. I was intrigued by how unperturbed he was by the conversation, in fact he showed a keen interest.

"Something to that effect," nodded Bart. "By ridding of sexual frustration -pardon the terminology Father- those far from home, family, wives and lovers etcetera, are more at ease. In my experience there's less tension, less fighting and people are generally more relaxed." He shifted to view his work better by the firelight, "My dance card is no longer full every night though, that generally only happens whenever a new boatful arrives- what a boom in business!" the grin on his face was nearly infectious.

Bartheleus was a kaldorei man of very slender build. Fondly referred to, and introduced as, Bart, he also sold his body for more traditional payment as well as masquerading as a tailor by daylight. Their reason for their late-night activities being that _happy in the shorts was happy in the port._

"Amen to that- no offense Father," Luciya waved, spluttering food crumbs out of her mouth, "I accumulated so much when that Menethil boat came in a few weeks ago-that one that Jerry arrived on! Oh and that other one a few months back; do you remember, with the Legion?" Despite the long scar covering half of her face, she was still very expressive when talking.

"I had a busier clientele three boats ago, lots of women on that particular one and a few nights involving three of us-" he coughed, sparing an embarrassed glance from under a curtain of long, blue hair to the eldest in the group. "Again, no offense intended Father. I don't mean to upset your _ah_ , sensibilities."

"Fear not, Bartheleus, I assure you that I have seen far worse in my lifetime and heard even cruder tales," He chuckled. The man kept his cowl up throughout most of the time I had seen him. Even though it was a large port, I hadn't seen him during the daytime, mostly at night when sitting around a campfire was all there was to do. His grey-white beard and whiskers had grown a little shaggy to suit him, but his deep voice was calm and collected from what I had heard. He was a very comfortable man to sit with, I surmised.

"So I've heard! You're not really my type of catch, I have to admit, sir, but that doesn't mean I can't cast my net out to you if you need," Luciya chimed in, a spanner now in her mouth and fingers tinkering something delicate; her _more-vegetable-than-broth_ meal emptied from her wooden bowl. She asked as though offering to break bread with the man, such was a trivial thing she suggested. I don't recall knowing a lot about intimate relations but this did seem unusually outwith social boundaries. The Cleric seemed mortified at the idea however, which amused the group- even the silent dwarf gave a deep chuckle.

"Forgive me child, but I will decline. I am one with my faith and that is enough," he said, though his voice seemed a little strained. Despite showing the good man some deep respect, the two companions didn't seem embarrassed or ashamed of their professions at all- in fact they embraced it and made it their own. Could I…maybe do the same? Somehow turn my situation around into sometime more positive? A loud voice, sounding rather like Walden and Firesworn combined, gave a large resounding _NO_ in the back of my mind.

"Well you wouldn't be the first _Of-the-Cloth_ either of us have had and I doubt you'd have been the last, but your recent shipload is bad for our occupation," Bart continued, Luciya now fighting a frustrating battle with her small project- there seemed to be cogs involved. "A little bit stuck up, I can't even drop hints to any of them for fear of a lecture about The Light or _how bad my ways are_. I'm not sure if you know, but going that long without- well, it's painful, Sir." To my, and possibly everyone's surprise, the Cleric just laughed.

"I can imagine. I'm sorry however, I cannot openly advocate your, ah _, vocation_ to my Crusaders. However, it is interesting to seek this from another point of view," he said thoughtfully.

"Many people do things they don't want to just because they have no other choice," Terowin spoke, finally joining in the conversation. "Few around them are often aware that it is their only path." He continued sharpening his dangerous looking axe with a whetstone-he had been doing it for so long, the noise had faded into the background. I doubted it needed it, but it gave him something to do I suppose. My own standard-issue blade was confiscated, leaving me longing for it, to also see it stained like Terowin's.

"That's very profound for you," I noted. My hands, unlike everyone else's were empty. The only thing they were doing was grasping each other tightly in an effort to hide my restlessness. "Any particular story behind that statement?" I thought of him at his near-execution, pleading for life to exact revenge for his brothers' deaths. Did he truly have no choice?

"Not particularly." He turned, giving me a direct look, " _You,_ however, should be more than familiar with the concept." I didn't care for his condescending tone, so I turned to ignore him again, instead watching the ever silent dwarf stitch together scraps of leather. What an ass that elf was. Thinking of how much _two_ elves had now aggravated me, I had to wonder if there was just something about them that made them naturally annoying.

"What made you join the Crusade, Terowin," Luciya asked, - her mechanical item lay discarded at her feet in frustration. I saw out of the corner of my eye, unsurprised as he spun a quarter-turn to view her full on.

"Interesting story behind that, actually," he smirked, throwing a look his side, "I made something of a deal with them. All of my information about the Master's plans, strengths and weaknesses in exchange for my life." Luciya looked awed and leaned forward on her knees to hear more. It was hard not to notice that bust of hers from underneath her plain shirt and leather braces. A cloak was draped around her shoulders, but she probably didn't notice it.

"So, how can they guarantee your loyalty then? I mean, theoretically couldn't you just lie to them about that information? For instance, deliver them into His clutches, almost?" Luciya; not one to mince words or sugar-coat them.

It was impossible not to take an interest in the conversation really; everyone had paused their tasks and leaned forward- even Tonie, the dwarf was listening in. We were all eager to hear his answer- I know I had thought about it more than once, hence where some of my distrust of him stemmed from.

He smirked once more, this one sinister in the flickering campfire as night drew darker. He leaned closer to Luciya, no doubt getting a better view of her chest as well as making an attempt to the dramatic.

"That is a simple one, my dear. In fact I'm sure that our dear _Cleric_ here could even explain it in full detail," He threw a wicked grin at Father Favian before resuming. "Now, have you ever-"

"GREEN! Where is that damned contraption of yours?" All heads turned to see a large, overbearing man storming towards our small party. Sporting an eyepatch and a bandage-wrapped torso, I couldn't help but wonder how he wasn't cold this late at night. I suppose the inordinate amount of chest hair probably kept him warm. He spat as he shouted, stopping behind Luciya. She made no move to acknowledge him, simply tinkered on with her project- when did she pick it back up?

"Green! Answer me, woman!" Luciya started to hum, frustrating the man more. The rest of us watched on carefully, or at least Bart, the Cleric and I did. Terowin seemed to be withholding a laugh. Tonie had bent his head low once more, stitching leather scraps together, the scene before him labelled boring, perhaps. Even in the firelight, this intruder's flush was evident.

"Luciya," said Bart carefully, not sure what might set this man off. She looked up curious, and in mock surprise, turned to the man seething behind her like a rabid wolf.

"Zorek! How _good_ to see you. When did you arrive? Do you know I was _just_ on my way to see you this very instant to tell you that this-" she waved around her shapeless metal apparatus, "- is nowhere _near_ completion and to ask you to sit tight a little longer." I could actually see a vein throbbing on his bald head- that cannot be healthy.

"Curse you woman, I tasked you with this weeks ago!" Luciya looked unconcerned by the threating tone directed towards her.

"Yes, yes, all in a day's work, Guard-Captain, but if only I had the book…" she waved her spanner off-handedly, turning back to her work. If I hadn't seen her working on it for the last while, I wouldn't have known that she wasn't even doing anything to it. She was hell bent on winding this man up. Judging by his twitching jaw and that vein, she was doing a pretty good job.

"You know damn well I'm not retrieving that damned manual for you. Just hurry up and figure it out or I'll send your ass back to Stormwind!" Bart jumped up at this, walking round to the man. His sudden action nearly made me miss Luciya's flinch.

"Tell me Zorek, when did you and I last catch up? How about an ale on me at the tavern? I have something to discuss with you about the new recruits' uniforms…" Bart said cautiously. Zorek let out a loud breath in a cold cloud, which was probably for the best as he was one step shy of frothing at the mouth, before accepting. With one last grunt of anger at Luciya, the two men walked slowly away, Bart distracting the man into calming. When they were out of earshot, Luciya shot out a loud curse.

"Aargh! _That man_! Would getting the damned manual be so difficult?" she proclaimed exasperated. Her chest was heaving in anger, much to Terowin's amusement, I noted.

"Take one deep breath, child. And release it. Again, and release." This seemed to bring her mood down a little, but at the expense of her losing some miniature screws from her device. She threw the item into the campfire, not even bothering to contain her cussing in front of her Cleric friend. I had watched this exchange with a detached curiosity at their behaviour- the tightening of her jaw, the soft touch Favian offered on her arm, the object now turning bright red in the flames…

I was reaching in to retrieve it when I heard him say:-

"Maintain your cool and calm like Cersae here, I'm sure she could offer you advice on dealing with your emotions." My fingers stumbled over the device, dropping them in the burnt ashes at the base of the fire, but I quickly recovered and pulled it free of the flames. 'Dealing with my emotions' – what a laughable idea! And I was not the only one to think so, a deep baritone voiced a sinister laugh.

"My dear _Cleric_ , you are truly charming," Terowin overstated.

"How so, Terowin Darksworn?" Now, I have no idea when or how it started, but these two had some strange rapport that allowed them all sorts of social privileges- straight up (possibly intended, sometimes banter-y) disrespect, openly questioning each other's actions and philosophies, even underhanded name-calling that just seemed comfortable with them both. It was a bizarre friendship, if that was what it was, to witness upon. Perhaps they had met on the boat crossing here, because I certainly didn't keep Darksworn occupied socially when we travelled. How the Cleric put up with him was beyond me.

"Well, for one, she would need to actually _possess_ emotions to be able to deal with them." He left as was while Luciya and the priest looked between us, absorbing the information. I couldn't dispute him for it was true. What others experienced joy and sadness at; I felt a big fat nothing. The lack of it didn't disturb me, I hadn't even noticed that I didn't react when I should have felt something, but I knew that it upset Mort. He had indeed told me as much before we parted ways in his 'I will get you back to normal' speech.

"Is this true? You feel…nothing?" Luciya whispered. She was sometimes so like a child it was hard to remember she was supposedly a few years older than me. Right now with her wide eyes and loose, waist-length orange hair, she indeed seemed infantile. I merely shrugged in response.

"What about at Light's Hope Chapel? Or during the battles?" she pushed on, my answers rounding up to a shake of the head each time. Nope, nada, nothing. "What about your Death Knight training?" She didn't know about my memory loss so the next line of questioning shouldn't have been surprising. "Or when you slaughtered everyone for The Lich King? Did you honestly not feel even the slightest hint of remorse? Regret? Guilt?"

I don't know what surprised me more- the near irresistible urge to flinch or that she wasn't even remotely accusatory when she questioned me. She could have asked me about the weather in the same inquisitive tone and not have sounded strange.

I didn't think my own personal torment counted; it wasn't the answer she was looking for. "No, I can honestly say that I feel- and felt- nothing," I supplied.

And then silence.

Even Cleric Favian seemed to have succumbed to a thoughtful- or troubled, I wasn't sure- state at my admission. A foreign sensation came over me, and later the next day, alone on labour duties, I figured out why- I didn't want to lose their company and the conversation that had just occurred was in danger of jeopardising that.

"You are surprised? Look at her! She's paler than the snows of Icecrown, there are corpses centuries-dead that are healthier looking than her and you just witnessed her reach into a fire to come out unscathed!" Terowin effused with undiminished glee. Suddenly my sword on his throat was looking very attractive. "She is not even _human,_ how could she possibly feel anything? We are unfeeling creatures born in Death and Blood, do not forget that, _Cleric_." The target of that speech simply looked hard at Terowin, something unspoken passing between the two.

"But…but she- you speak with us and you seem normal…I mean, I know you're…well…dead, but you don't _feel?_ " Luciya seemed to be the only one struggling with the concept of my mental and emotional neutrality. I wanted to tell her otherwise, but what could I say? It went on like this for a while, Luciya seemingly very upset at, or with me. Perhaps even for me, I didn't know.

"She will feel though. Eventually." Three heads turned in quick succession to the Death Knight at the sound of his voice. "Arthas made sure we would be the ultimate weapon in his arsenal, and so when we are Turned we are instilled with something even worse than the need for revenge or the enjoyment of a simple slaughter." No one spoke, I wasn't even sure if the other two were breathing now. There was just something in that dulcet voice of his that crept into our minds, grasping something so primal that fear started edging its way out. It was a nasty habit of his.

He looked to me unwavering. "It starts with Agitation."

His hands started to move in a subtle regularity over his beloved axe.

"Shortly following it will breed to Restlessness."

**_"It will soon take a hold of you…_ **

He was curving a whetstone over the blade as I had seen him do many a time.

"Restlessness will evolve to Vexation," another slice of the stone. Sparks flew.

"Vexation will spill over into Thirst."

**_…You will feel pain immeasurable…_ **

A scrape across the edge.

"Thirst mutates into Bloodlust."

A final swipe along the armament. He placed the butt of it on the ground, the weapon looming menacingly overhead, dark stains highlighted by the fire.  
 _  
_ _ **There is only one remedy for the suffering…**_

"And the Bloodlust _must_ be sated." He stood, placing his instrument over his shoulder and turned to leave, but not before-

"Not even you can escape The Endless Hunger, Little Sister."

**_…You are ready, Cersae._ ** **"**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.wowhead.com/quest=12848/the-endless-hunger


	14. (Un)Pleasant  Surprises

_Twelve days after arriving in Northrend_

Depositing his armour in his tent for later polishing and setting his sword on his cot for cleaning, clad in his woollen underclothes, Ryndan allowed himself a long stretch before exiting and walking towards the bathhouse. The cold air filtered through the cloth and hit his sweat-ridden skin with a relieving delight. His limbs struggled against the cold without frequent exercise and his own age-old wounds tended to play up a little if the weather became too overcast or stormy. Today his body ached for different reasons.

Today's raid had been small. Eight Vrykul and four rabid wolves had sounded their horn in an attempt to demoralise the troops. It only fuelled them further, giving their own shouts and calls of aggression, showing the enemy that their efforts were for naught. The cannons fired first, unable to vitally injure before they had entered the field. The skirmish lasted perhaps a quarter of an hour, all eight giants falling one after another- but not without casualties. Two Defenders had died in the line of duty and one Crusader was critically wounded. Others merely added to their growing collection of scars and war trophies to show those at home. Healers did what they could from the back of the lines, but as soon as the coast was clear, they flooded the front of the gates checking each fallen and kneeling person.

Wolf meat was on the menu tonight.

It had been three hours since the onslaught, his group of Crusaders now recovering and tending their wounds-Ryndan making sure each of those under his care was fit or in need of attention. Most of the younger men tended to underplay their wounds; especially in front of their friends or female equivalents trying to boast invulnerability. He himself used to be guilty of it as a Private but most, as they experience it's dangerous to underestimate injuries, realise eventually that quick treatment is the best course of action.

In a strategy agreed on by Guard-Captain Zorek and himself, the Defenders and Crusaders were sorted into several groups with numbers ranging from twenty to thirty-five depending on skill levels. Each group was on standby for a few hours each or until an attack had taken place, allowing the rest to sleep, eat, train and care for their equipment. This then allowed for a constant cycle, day and night, of fighters at the ready for any surprise attack by their threat beyond the woods. There wasn't much they could do about the harpoons across the bay, however, merely deal with the aftermath of any hits. With a group of eight, only the group on call was needed, the next on the rota sitting ready in the event of a surprise follow on attack. Had the attackers had four or five more, the next troupe on call would have joined the fray.

His current overview of these large creatures gave Ryndan the idea that they weren't militarily experienced. They seemed to act on rage, anger and blood lust. This suited him fine- an angry enemy was a stupid one; their only advantage being their size. They threw their warriors at them like pebbles- throw them one at a time, it makes them easy to dodge and deflect. Throw a lot at once or a boulder, it makes it harder to avoid. If indeed they ever did try to attack the port with their entire 'army', Valgarde would certainly struggle, even with the presence of the Crusaders. Picking them off one-by-one was certainly doing a better job, less casualties on his and his ally's side too.

"- do you think she'd be interested?"

"Well, I didn't see any trinket or jewellery indicating marriage, so maybe she's available…"

Two voices, belonging to Corporal Jason and Sergeant Edrikson respectively filtered into his thoughts. Exiting from the bathhouse, he saw three figures, two young men and a lanky looking draenei, walking slowly towards him. The third- Corporal Danila- chimed in.

"Like she would sleep with a sap like you!" his Common was accented but the insult wasn't missed.

"Hey! I'm a good-looking guy!" Shoulder-length, fair hair, bright green eyes and freckles rounded up into 'good-looking' in this soldier's opinion. Ryndan would call it 'boyish', personally.

"Sure, if she's doped up on ale and rum _, then_ maybe she'd consider you" They continued walking up the hill towards the tavern, hair still wet from washing, ragged towels over their shoulders and cloaks on their backs, oblivious to their commanding officer standing a few feet away.

"Besides, it's not like you'd be allowed anyway _if_ , and I say if in the barest sense of the word, she'd come within ten feet o' you," Edrikson laughed, hitting his friend on the shoulder.

"Ohhh but did you see those _legs?_ I'd risk a telling off from Ashwood for those thighs to be wrapped around me," Jason sighed, his expression clearly fantasising just a scenario. His two friends merely laughed and jested.

"I wouldn't, but then again it wasn't exactly her legs that drew my attention," Edrikson vaunted with a smirk. His dark hair sat flat while wet; it was normally curly- something that his fellow soldiers never failed to let him forget, fondly calling him 'Curls' out with official situations. Ryndan found it amusing, his own name being simplified to 'Dan' by those near and dear to him. Most of the Crusaders had a nickname or two, some pleasant, some so insulting one's own mother may blanch at hearing them.

They drew closer, snickering amongst themselves.

"Yes, I'd risk a court-martial for all of that-" he drew the outline of a woman in the cold air with two hands, savouring the curves and perhaps exaggerating the indent of the waist.

"Oh really? Then perhaps you'd like to tell me more about this escapade of yours while running laps around the camp stark naked, Corporal Jason?" Ryndan stepped forward in front of the trio, earning three very quick, and very startled salutes.

"C-Captain! Sir! I – that is, I was only-" The poor boy stuttered. Barely twenty, if his memory recalled correctly, was now blushing crimson to the roots of his fair hair at being caught talking so vulgarly. Ryndan didn't blame him his desires, of course, but there were other ways to deal with them.

"At ease, soldiers. I hear we have a stew that doesn't involve Shoveltusk tonight so go get your fill." He dismissed them with a non-verbal warning. Scaring them was enough to make them think twice about their actions. They were good kids, most of them were, with only a few minor indiscretion's throughout the year. Ryndan was both glad and perturbed by having so many novices in his own particular contingent here. If they were here he could train them to their potential and beyond while getting mild combat experience in the shape of the Vrykul. However, they were indeed novices for a reason and small mistakes were costly on the real battlefield. Limitations and extents of power are learned in those times.

Such was war.

Light-hearted after shocking his underlings, he continued his journey. Entering the wooden longhouse serving as the bathhouse he was greeted by a rush of steam and warmth, instantly causing a sheen on his exposed skin. Several low-level cubicles lined the opposing walls, a long bench in the middle and a bubbling cauldron of warm water stood at the far end over an ever-burning fire. This was the men's bathhouse, the women's situated next door, though Ryndan found himself questioning that when he saw such a creature standing up in the far end cubicle, clothed and dismantling something.

The Knight Captain stood for a near minute, puzzled at this sight. His brow was furrowed while he retraced his exterior route in his mind before she noticed him. Giving a small 'oh' of surprise (or he assumed it was an 'oh', she had some sort of metal instrument in her mouth), she waved a hammer and mumbled something incoherent.

"Spanner out of your mouth, Luci," voiced someone unknown. Looking to his right he saw the outline of a kaldorei seated in a cubicle, naked shoulders visible above the door. His hair hung loose down his back, wet and dark.

"Sorry 'bout that! Ignore me up here, I'm just working on a wee project to improve bathing. Continue," said the woman breaking into a large smile, waving in his direction. In a barely lit place such as this- it only possessed four small windows- her carrot-coloured hair was very bright. Tied in a long plait down her back, many strands had come loose and became what he could only describe as _frizzy_ in the heat of the house. Nodding his thanks, he walked up to the cauldron; picking up one of the few stacked wooden buckets and filled it. He passed her on his way back down the hut. The cubicle door, off its hinges, sat against the wall while a large toolbox of bizarre looking items sat open at its entrance. The woman stood atop a crate, installing some sort of pipe or metal cylinders. Her sleeveless shirt was soaked with sweat down the back and her long arms were shining. Dark braces held up red leather breeches and he could now see exactly what his three subordinates had been discussing earlier. The indent in the figure's outline was _not_ exaggerated, it seemed. Indeed she was an attractive woman.

Choosing a spare cubicle directly across from the other Elf (and coincidentally about six stalls away from the woman), Ryndan divested of his shirt and breeches, taking great relief in relishing in the freedom that only air could offer. Several sores had developed over the course of the past two weeks from his armour rubbing through the padding. The cold of Northrend chapped his skin, making it far worse and painful. Sitting on the wooden stool in the cubicle, his clothes and towel hanging over the wooden partition and washed himself with the warm water, taking great care with his patches of raw skin. Talia was known to keep salves stocked up to treat these, but as she was currently situated west somewhere, it was unlikely that he could receive such a blessing here. A thought presented itself- _Perhaps he could ask Yazmina_?

"Son of a Quillboar!" echoed the only feminine voice in the vicinity.

"Language, Luciya, we have company," admonished her Elven friend.

"But Bart, this damned thing won't work!" and she swiftly kicked the metal cylinder, earning an even cruder oath to be omitted. "If Zorek would just let me spend more time designing _this_ rather than that stupid piece of crap for the launcher, then perhaps we could actually enjoy bathing!" Ryndan was reminded of a child in a strop, an interesting contrast for the twenty-something woman. He was used to bathing alongside fellow men, but the presence of a woman did offend his sensibilities a little. She couldn't see anything from her standpoint (he hoped) but even if she did, he had nothing to hide; simply his manners felt unsettled being naked in front of a lady.

"May I enquire as to what you are installing?" Ryndan asked, genuinely curious. Her face lit up much like his sisters' would at being given new clothes.

"Well, it's a S.H.O.W.E.r, that's a _Super Heat-Operated Water Effuser_ \- that I'm hoping to revolutionise bathing with." It's quick, efficient and so much more pleasant. But Zorek assigned me to trying to engineer a missing part for the harpoon gun they've acquired. They don't have the manual that my Chief Engineer wrote when he found the gun and he refuses to retrieve it. It would simplify the process _so much_!" Ryndan had heard about this from the Guard-Captain, Zorek only saying that 'he had people working on it'. He also questioned the legitimacy of the word 'Effuser', but as Common wasn't his first language, he deferred to her potentially greater vocabulary.

"Where's the Chief Engineer?"

"Dead, I think. Or I hope. I've heard about what they did to the archaeologists out there- I'd hate to think he's pinned to a tree dying slowly." Her voice dropped and he could now see the outline of a scar evident on the left half of her face, disappearing to below her shirt. He had simply thought it to be a shadow first.

"I see." This was news to Ryndan, Zorek not mentioning that the Chief Engineer was missing. The woman, 'Luciya', as the man across him had called her, sighed heavily.

She mumbled, "stupid man, he's just mad because I turned him down for a night of -,"

"Tell him the truth, Luci." rebuked the Night Elf. Ryndan found it entertaining that the few words the Kaldorei spoke were only to chide this mature woman. She huffed at her friend, the pair seemingly unbothered by his state of undress, even if he was censored behind a cubicle door.

_"Fine_. He overheard me commenting on his body odour months back and it's been downhill with our relationship since then." Ryndan laughed throatily, the man did have a distinct aura about him that indicated a lack of bathing. A decent man and caring Captain at heart, he felt, but his stench was rather overwhelming, even if they were on a 'chunk of frozen hell', as Keller had described it.

"And then some- you two are worse than cat and dog," the Night Elf said. He turned his attention to Ryndan, "Bartheleus Bluewind, Chief Tailor in these forsaken parts."

"Captain Ryndan Firesworn of the Argent Crusade," he offered to his elven cousin, feeling that perhaps mutual nudity should at least be shared with knowledge of the other's name.

"Whoa, quite a mouthful there, Cap'n," Luciya chuckled, giving him a mock salute. He smirked at her attempts to make him comfortable.

"Luciya Green; master engineer and pleasurable night time companion for _all_ of your needs." She mockingly bowed, offering a wicked grin, all thoughts of comfort evaporating with the steam of the room, leaving Ryndan at a loss for words.

"Or you can have Bartheleus over there, if you are more inclined for _male company_ ," she was taking an inordinate amount of glee from this.

"Hush, Luciya. Ignore her, please; she's a terrible child, truly." 'Child' wasn't perhaps the word Ryndan would use to describe the woman leaning on the cubicle at the end of his row-that view indeed indicated anything but infancy. His subordinates would probably be pleased to hear she did indeed offer company to the likes of them- not that he would tell them. Bartheleus continued speaking, "and anyway, I haven't been with a man since I moved here from Stormwind. Forgive me Captain, I mean you no offense, you are not in any way unattractive. But given I'm now able to choose my clientele, I'm rather inclined to wipe that particular slate clean."

"No problem," the Captain offered weakly, not entirely sure what to say in this situation. Luciya's laughter was ringing out through the hut, her eyes crinkled shut in joy. Ryndan was tense.

"Apologies, Ryndan, I was merely teasing. I know you Crusade lot aren't so inclined as to intimate encounters." Not strictly true-many were in fact married, but he wasn't going to correct her in fear of more 'teasing'.

"Oh dear, it's been long since I laughed like that," she wiped away tears, presumably, from her scarred face. Bartheleus was also laughing deeply across the room, standing now so that his torso and hips were visible, towelling himself dry. Luciya started packing away her tools, her work evidently concluded for today. Lathering up the crude soap bar in the stall, Ryndan washed his short hair and drowned it in the remaining water from his bucket. As the floorboards of the hut were specifically sloped, the water ran out the underside of the cubicle into a drain running the length in the centre under the bench. Rubbing his stubble he surmised that a shave would be in order soon.

Dabbing himself dry, he quickly threw on his shirt and breeches, exiting the cubicle to nearly bump into Luciya as she made to exit also. Bart was carrying her toolbox.

"May I ask about your scar?" It was out before he could think about it, simply being up close to her he could see the fierce purple of it clearer, evidently a burn rather than a birthmark or blademark. It covered one side of her nose, part of her inner eye socket and lid and most of her left cheek. It dipped to under her chin and followed down past her collarbone to who-knew-where in her shirt. Ugly as it was, he could still see the symmetry in what she used to look like.

In all of this musing he had failed to notice until it was too late that her form had tensed- as did Bartheleus'- and her hands clenched. All trace of mirth had disappeared. He had overstepped the boundary, forgetting that she wasn't one of his soldiers.

"Engineering accident." Was all she muttered before hanging her head low and walking deliberately out into the ice-cold in nought but trousers and a thin shirt, the tall Kaldorei close and steady in her wake, watching over her.

" _Anar'alah_ ," He muttered, returning the bucket and exiting the hut. The odd pair walked away towards the forges, their colouring much brighter in the daylight. He sighed. Clever and brilliant he was at military strategizing, he was an idiot when it came down to interacting with _actual_ people. With a mental berating he stalked up towards to behind the inn, along the row of tents erected for the Argent Crusade's use and made his way to his own, preparing to thoroughly tell himself off in a long hour of polishing his armour and hammering out the kinks it had received from today's battering.

Only that would have to wait as a letter demanded his attention, the envelope decorated in familiar handwriting, sitting upon his cot, unopened.

Walden was requesting a parley.


	15. Favours

_Fifteen days after arriving in Northrend_

"Dan! There y'are, sit down lad- whur ya been?" his superior questioned.

"Talking with Yazmina then Zorek. They failed to mention that their chief engineer was missing and that they had a written operations manual for the harpoon launcher gun stolen from the Vrykul." Ryndan was tired, under the weather and annoyed. Such information could have been useful earlier. He told McGreaves as much.

"Apparently, according to Scout's intel, the engineer in question figured out how to work it and drew up a manual for it. He was in the middle of making it work when he was abducted. They sent one rescue team to find him and his other missing men only to discover that the manual has wound up underneath that hulking castle in some catacombs!" Ryndan cried, drawing a little attention from nearby patrons of the tavern. It was late at night now, most fed and milling or winding down for the night. After speaking with the woman in the bathhouse a few days ago, he'd been eager to find out more about this situation and it had only aggravated him more.

"The only thing that Zorek said was that he 'had people working on it'. Think about how vital that weapon could be in defending this port! We won't be here forever to help them, but if they can take down those opposing launchers then-"

"Aye, lad, Ah know whit ye're sayin', but it's no our place. We've got bigger fish tae be thinkin' aboot," he said wearily.

"What do you mean?" A bowl of stew and bread arrived from the bar, Ryndan thanked the steward, barely taking his eyes off of McGreaves.

"The scouts've finally reported back about the rescue team." His tone was sombre and that wasn't good. In the two weeks since they had arrived, morale had dropped dramatically in the soldiers. The chill in the air seemed to not only seep into their bones, but in their minds too. The large, towering stone structure seen in the far distance north loomed ominously, almost like Acherus had. It sent a challenge to any who dare oppose it. Apparantly, according to Keller, several groups of adventurers passing through the port had attempted the castle. None had returned as of yet.

"What do they report?" Ryndan inquired. McGreaves tightened his grip on his tankard, his face pulled into a grimace.

"A day after nearing the strand, a Forsaken ship drew near and opened fire. They managed to take it out, but the Horde've retaliated. They seem tae be bombin' the ships with summat. We don't know what yet, but they've got these ugly creatures flyin' o'er them and dropping summat on the decks. That's whit's causin' the delay." Ryndan felt the blood drain from his face. The two naval captains and Commander Ashwood- as well as a small number of volunteers- had over a week ago to rescue those on the strand. The mission was to take an expected three, possibly four days at most. Here at eight days after their departure, this was the first news they'd received. The creeping, unspoken thought that the boats might have been sunk also lurking in the back of the Crusader's minds of late, another reason for the drop in morale. The Horde presence in the north-east was revealed when Ashwood asked for volunteers, many jumping to the aid, others realising that their commanding officers had lied to them.

Needless to say, Ryndan hadn't slept well since stepping foot on Northrend.

"Are they-" he couldn't voice the words.

"No, the scouts donnae think so. They reckon it's a chemical thing, an' say that the crew're still moving aboot on deck afterwards. They're still anchored away fae the shore, but I don't know how much longer they can last Dan. The stranded must be runnin' oot of supplies by now." The elf pushed his bowl away, suddenly no longer appealing while the thoughts of fellow soldiers and many others starving. What could be done now? His mind was churning, trying to formulate a plan, there must be _something-_

"And there's more." McGreaves looked deep into his tankard, still mostly full which was an extreme rarity for him.

 _More?_ thought Ryndan, _surely what else could be wrong?_

Swallowing hard, the older Paladin continued. "Some of the stranded are trying to push out, whether out of desperation or frustration, I don't know. But they're being shot down like dogs. And the Horde're-" he coughed, spluttering into his hand. "The Horde're burnin' 'em so we cannae recover the bodies." Ryndan wasn't sure what was harder to handle- watching his commanding officer barely contain his tears or the thought of so many dying while they were powerless. Ryndan's stomach churned-

"Sirs! I ..bring-" a young, soaked draenei ran up to the table, trying to catch his breath. " I bring…n-news- at.. the …the…" he coughed, McGreaves rounded the table quickly hitting him on the back, all sorrow gone from his face in this urgency.

"The Watchtower!" the Private, just joined the ranks before marching on the Plaguelands, collapsed to sitting, hand on his chest, breathing hard. Clasping the soldier on the shoulder, Ryndan and McGreaves leapt and ran out into the harsh weather towards the brick structure at the back of the settlement. Reaching the doors first, Ryndan hurriedly demanded entrance from the on-duty cloaked guards and pushed past the doors before they were barely open. Realising what- or who- lay within, he dropped to one knee, his mind frantically trying to make sense of the situation. McGreaves arrived a few moments later, gasped a near-expletive in his breathlessness and joined his subordinate on the floor.

"Nay, stand men, now is not the time for such overly-gross formalities." Their host said. Gingerly, they both rose, questions on their tongue as one of the most senior of the Argent Crusade was currently sitting slumped at a table, having his left arm treated. Two long grey locks hung wet either side of his face, his overgrown beard plastered to his thinned face, emphasising how exhausted he looked. Later Ryndan realised that two weeks of hard travel was enough to wear anyone out, and this man was well past his prime.

"My Lord Trueblade! Pray tell- what has happened? When did you arrive?" McGreaves probed, all pretence of a rowdy dwarf dropped. Trueblade waved his free hand slowly, indicating the two sit at the table with him. Three others- all garbed in Argent armour, sat also, each looking serious. Ryndan vaguely recognised one or two of them, but no names came to mind. Both Paladins unbuckled their sword-belts and strapped them across their chairs out of respect before sitting.

"Apologies for the commotion, gentlemen, it had been our intention to arrive undetected at night and seek your counsel come the morn." The gash on his arm was deep and ugly- the bracketed torchlight adding gruesome shadows to it. "We were attacked within the hour, only a little north of Valgarde- by the Giants." His aged face was taught with fatigue and perhaps- grief? Ryndan felt himself tense as he would before a battle, something was very wrong.

"The Argent Crusade had lost three good men and women this night, I pray the Light guide their souls to peace and rest." Trueblade chanted quietly.

"May the Light receive them forever more" Ryndan and McGreaves spake in response. A moment of silence among the small group passed.

"Forgive me for pushing, Lord Trueblade, but as far as I knew, you were on the flagship- and of course I am grateful for your assured safety but-" Ryndan asked, only a small amount of urgency in his voice. Indeed, to say they had been thrown off-balance was something understated.

"But what of the others, you ask?" Their Superior finished. Ryndan and his Dwarven Commander nodded dumbly. "I was transferred from the Flagship at a last minute request along with my men here." And so didn't land on the beach where the rescue ships were aiming this very moment.

"Aye, so wis I, actually, no' sure why tho'" McGreaves piped in, his stocky hands clasped tightly atop the table. This wasn't news to Ryndan, a few names listed on the flagship ended up on his own. After memorising the rosters, Ryndan had been stunned to see his shorter superior on deck.

"We were not on the Flagship, luckily. We had a greater task at hand, and for that reason we were moved. We landed in Dragonblight, making headway towards the Wintergarde Keep- however, our task required us to travel here urgently, and we left two weeks ago, only a day after making port." He hissed as a salve was applied to his wound, the healer being extremely gentle in his silent ministrations. Ryndan was desperate to know of this task, but knew that if the Lord wanted them to know, he would speak it to them.

"With your blessing, we seek refuge here to recuperate and to fulfil our duties," Irulon Trueblade bent his head towards McGreaves- the current Commander-in-charge while Ashwood was absent- and so did his reduced entourage of three. If the situation weren't so serious, Ryndan may have laughed at the stricken look of shock on McGreaves' face at being bowed to by _The_ Lord Irulon Trueblade. Stammering, he gave a stern "of course!" and flushed redder than Ryndan had ever seen him.

"Thank you, friends." The Lord looked as though he had aged in the four, perhaps longer, weeks since Ryndan had been in his presence. "It has been a while, has it not, Soren?" the older man smiled gently – though not wholeheartedly- at McGreaves, who visibly relaxed and clasped his friend's free hand with his own fondly, a strained smile of mutual sorrow mirroring Trueblade's.

"Aye, far too long."

* * *

_Sixteen days after landing in Northrend_

"Cers! _Cers_!"

Maybe if I ignored her, she'd go away. She was like a vulture or insect buzzing about a corpse, or me, specifically. I guess there wasn't much difference, really.

I watched from afar as Cleric Favian spoke to a grandly-armoured looking man, somewhat missing his presence around our usual campfire which was currently barren apart from yours truly. I didn't recognise the suited-up-to-the-hilt individual so perhaps he arrived recently. Either that or I really needed to start paying more attention to my surroundings and fellow people. However, certain distractions at the moment proved to make such observation difficult.

"Cer _sae..._ " _Buzz, buzz, buzz_. My hopes of ignoring her being the key to her departure were still in place. I mean, it _might_ work...

She yelled into my ear. " _CERSAE!_ "

Then again, perhaps not.

In my defence, it took all of my willpower not to harm her, so that was some more points in the good-morale-character column, I felt.

"What?!" I demanded, turning to the fly in question. Flaming orange primarily presented itself in my vision, Luciya wearing her hair as two braids over her shoulders today.

"There's been a change in plans." Foreboding words if I've ever heard.

"Why?"

"I heard your Captain talking with Zorek yesterday- apparently the manual isn't in the village like I suspected." I felt like she was gearing up for a joke or riddle with a ridiculous answer for a punchline.

I made a mental note to berate her later for calling Firesworn 'my Captain'. Said man was standing nearby conversing with a, what are they called... _drain-eye_ woman...whatever Lorik was. I watched as they exchanged words and then a slip of paper. How interesting. "Where is it then?"

"It's in the catacombs underneath the giant's citadel! We're going to have to sneak in there instead of just the village!" And _there_ was the punchline.

"No, I don't think we are."

"But-"

"Look, I know you said that if I scratched your back you'd scratch mine, but don't you think you're relying on my skills- or lack thereof- a _little_ too much here?" It pained me to admit it, since she had vital information I was after, but even so, I wasn't that confident in what she asked of me. She shook her head, a large smile adorning her face.

"Not at all! I know you've been training with Terowin, so you'll be the perfect bodyguard to get the manual!" Hmm, I doubted it. True as it was, following his Endless Hunger monologue a few nights ago I decided to take him up on his offer of training to stave off the restlessness and ill-at-ease feelings I had suffered since landing here. It cost me my pride to do so, but he eventually said yes. And the bastard never let me forget the begging I was forced to do to get his help either. Asshole. We 'trained', and I use the word loosely, for my swordcraft was shockingly terrible, at night, generally when most of the Crusaders were bed-bound and couldn't report me to the oh-so-high-and-mighty-pointy-eared-elf-captain. How on earth does he cope with those ears anyway? And those _eyebrows…_

"Right, it's settled. The next time we have a heavy storm or rainfall at night, we're sneaking into the catacombs! Oh this is so exciting!" and like that she bounced away from me, leaving me speechless in her wake, alone.

* * *

"You've a bloody cheek to show your face to me," Ryndan said through gritted teeth. He had his 'friend' up against the cliff face with a forearm at his throat. Walden just looked at him.

"I asked for a meeting because no doubt you've got questions-" he started

"You are damned right I have questions! Let's start with this one- _how much did you know?!"_ The Paladin pushed himself closer to the Forsaken at his mercy, applying more pressure to his neck causing him to choke.

"I swear- I didn't-" he hacked. "I didn't know!"

"Lies!"

"I'm not lying! Now back away so we can talk!" a sharp tip of a blade found itself aimed at Ryndan's hip, digging in enough to get the point across. Standing at an impasse, and breathing heavily, the elf sighed frustratingly and backed away from the Baron.

"Speak," he demanded, running a hand through his short, brown hair. Walden relaxed a little, but didn't retract his dagger.

"Look, Dan. I had no idea that the Dark Lady had already established a landing site there- I had been with the Dawn for the weeks leading up to Light's Hope, you _know_ this!" Yes, Ryndan remembered. It was one of the few facts that planted doubt in his mind about Walden's involvement with the Forsaken attack, and thus stopping him from killing the undead on the spot. Walden alternated his talents and time between his faction and the Dawn to get as much vengeance out on the Scourge as possible. I guess living in Stratholme at the time of the infamous purge had had an effect on his undead friend and his vengeance priorities.

"I had already left before I could reach word to you about it. I thought I was headed west, until they changed course on the ship- there was _nothing_ I could do," he pleaded exasperatedly. The sad part was, Ryndan wasn't sure how much to trust of him, such was his anger. In his mind, Walden was Undead and the Undead were slaughtering his fellow Crusaders and others- Walden just took the figurehead for all that whenever he thought about it. He was finding it very difficult to separate the two images of Walden- as his friend or as representative of the enemy in the northeast.

"What of this _weapon_ you are using on the ships?" he asked icily.

"Ah, the toxins. Well _that's_ what I wanted to talk about when I wrote the letter-"

"How did you get it into my tent? How did you know _I was here_?" Given the disorganisation of the first day in Northrend, even Ryndan didn't know where he was bound for, so how did The Baron?

"That's my secret, I'm afraid" Walden replied, a hint of mischief surfacing from underneath the serious façade he had donned. They currently sat far away from the port, partially down the fjord inlet and away from any prying eyes and ears. Walden had written to meet up this night at such a place- how he knew the layout of Valgarde was slightly disturbing to Ryndan. Sneaking away undetected proved to be a challenging task, but manageable. In fact, the most difficult part of the night was convincing himself whether to go to this meeting or not.

"Your Alliance ships attacked our incoming vessel first, so it's only natural-"

"That you poison them. I see," Ryndan crossed his arms in partial annoyance and also to stay them from reaching for his sword.

"Don't be like that, Dan. What could I say to dissuade the Apothecaries to not use them as test subjects? Advocate what they had done? My hands were tied-"

 _"Test subjects_?" Ryndan reared up, temper flaring. Walden drew his other dagger slowly from his sheath.

"Watch it, Dan, I've no reason to not defend myself, even if it's you." Walden warned cautiously. "And yes, the Apothecaries are developing a plague and then your ships presented themselves as happy targets-"

"There are good men and women dying out there because of you!" Ryndan was beyond anger, he was infuriated. Still in control of his actions, it took all of his strength not to withdraw the weapon resting across his back. His fists were clenched painfully. He tried to recite an age-old prayer to calm his nerves. It failed.

"And they are killing ours too with their cannons!" The Argent Crusade Captain snapped.

"They're cornered like animals- let them _go_!" He grabbed Walden's collar and shoving him harshly against the rough cliff face.

"I would if I was the one in charge, but _I'm not_ , Ryndan! So stop placing all of the blame onto me- _I have no influence in that port!"_

"You are burning their bodies like criminals!"

"This is _Northrend_ , you fool! Any dead body here is a potential soldier for Arthas! We _have_ to burn them for _everyone's_ safety!" Walden cried, patience lost now. They fell quiet, contemplating their own words. The river lapped up onto the thin shore where they stood, the only other sounds being of the nearby harbour. Overhead, a crack of night-sky could be seen, naked and twinkling. Neither of the men noticed.

Ryndan was breathing heavily and felt flushed. Only wearing his chainmail shirt to meet Walden, he was glad for he wasn't sure how he might have coped in a full suit of armour. That and he might have stood more of a chance against Walden's daggers, which wasn't necessarily a good thing.

There was a terse silence between the two men, only one with rapid huffs of breath visible. The other watched on, waiting for any small sign of sudden attack. They both knew who the victor would be in such an event, but that didn't stop the idea presenting itself regardless. His anger slowly receeding, he opened his frozen hands, Mort dropping a few inches back to the ground. The elf drew a deep, cold breath, his lungs aching at the intrusion.

"This _plague_ \- is it aimed at the Alliance fleet?" Ryndan asked slowly, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer. If it was 'yes' then he would need to report back to McGreaves and Keller right away, thus informing them of his secret rendezvous with a Horde representative.

"No, it's not. It's being developed for the Scourge, or so they say." Walden replied carefuly, slumped in relief at the mutual unspoken truce.

"'They'?"

"The apothecaries." Walden sheathed his daggers again, the tension fading slowly into the cold air between the two. "They keep to themselves, but I'm not sure if they would tell me the truth, Dan. It's not unknown that I worked for the Argent Dawn; they could easily lie to me. That's why I wrote to you, I need to ask you a favour."

"What _kind_ of favour?"

"I need Cers."

* * *


	16. Enter the Catacombs

_Seventeen days after landing in Northrend_

I could feel her tugging my arm hushed-but-urgently telling me to move, but my body was rooted and I couldn't take a step. There was _something_ there, something…not right. It was a magnified burst of whatever it was I had been feeling since stepping foot on these Light-forsaken lands and it was centred _right there._

"Cers! Come _on_ , we have to _move_!" She was nearly frantic now, but there was nothing I could do. She had two long hands wrapped around my chainmail-covered arm, but despite her best efforts to force my weight, I felt compelled to move forward against the current that was Luciya. One heavy step. Another. Three more and I had moved several feet. The large bonfire behind us was dying in the rain. The occupants of the village slept. The two intruders were nearing their destination, and then I had felt it.

It was cold.

Not a cold to nip at your nose, or to breathe little clouds of steam into. No, it was a terrorising cold, an infiltrating one. It crept past your skin, beyond your muscles, through your bones and deep into the recesses of your soul.

And mine was caught in its grip.

**_Do you feel it mortal?_ **

"Cers! _Please!_ The patrol will be back round at any moment!" I could feel her throwing her weight backwards in an effort to stop my slow, deliberate footsteps, I just couldn't open my mouth to tell her that it was no use. My body was not under its own will anymore- and my mind was on its way to join it.

I knew this feeling, it had invaded me before. This wasn't just an ordinary cold. No, this was the body in its final moments. The darkest moment of night. The fear brought on by the one certainty in life.

**_Death seeps through me…_ **

I drew closer to the large stairway heralding the entrance into the looming Vrykul Citadel. There was _nothing_ there, nothing that I could physically see in this blasted rain. Yet my feet walked anyway- two more steps, a third.

**_…Enveloping all that I touch._ **

My hands were twitching. Jerking, crying for blood. A void in my chest grew larger and outwards. I needed _death_. My 'borrowed' weapons found their way into my hands from their scabbards. I cherished the handles beneath my fingers. I stopped at the bottom of the stairs. My hair was plastered to my face, by chainmail, trousers and boots soaked through from the downpour. The water ran down my back in a rivulet, its icy touch paving a way on my bare skin. It was magnificent. Bending one knee, I was on the water-soaked ground, awaiting orders.

**_"Your soul will languish in damnation for all eternity."_ **

I only needed to kill him, the sleeping guard on duty. He sat in a doorway far to my left, unable to guard anything effectively in this sheet of rain. This weather proved effective for stalking unnoticed into the village. And it would now serve another purpose; in hiding me from my prey until I took my blade to his throat and-

* * *

"Right, you really need to get a grip on yourself. I don't know _who_ you were talking to but it was freaky as hell."

She had been berating me since I had woken up. Safely huddled partway down the tunnel leading into the catacombs, Luciya has shown that she was more than a partially-pretty face by not only knocking me out, but dragging my dead-weight carcass here. I had a sizable lump on the back of my skull where she had clobbered me, but it proved worthwhile as it had awoken me from whatever trance had overtaken me, and ultimately sparing the slumbering guard.

"I feel fine now, truly," I reiterated, not for the third time. I wasn't allowed to move in fear of a concussion, despite my best efforts to inform her that I was highly unlikely to suffer something so mortal.

I refused to think about whatever had happened outside of this tunnel.

"Well, good. Because we lost a good half-hour or so thanks to whatever the hell that was you pulled out there. I want to be back before first light. Preferably before this rain lets up, or we're buggered in getting back." This was a good point. We had waited some time for a rainstorm big enough to conceal us and our scents in the village. Tonight had been that night. We had snuck out of the village with stolen armour and weapons for me and a jingly belt of tips and tricks for Luciya.

Holding out a hand, Luciya pulled me to standing and surveyed me from her extra few inches of height, water dripping from her loose strands of hair still. In this torch light, her scar was hidden in shadows, but something else hovered on her face instead.

"Come on, let's get a move on."

And so we descended.

It was a long walk, I didn't really keep track of how much time had passed- I had no way to tell. In a long earthen spiral we slowly fell, listening out for any sign of a potential opponent.

"So, what made _you_ join the Argent Crusade then?" Luciya whispered, her voice carrying over to me from behind.

"You're asking me this now?" I could see well enough in this dimly lit tunnel that avoiding rocks and roots was easy (Perk Number Three of being a Death Knight, I decided), but Luciya should be concentrating more on her step given by how many times she had cussed under her breath.

"Just thought I'd pass the time. I'm curious, is all." Hmm, I didn't doubt it. 'What Luciya wanted to know, Luciya found out'.

"I have to find someone, and the joining the Dawn is the best way of achieving that."

"Oh, that's right, you said that…" She trailed off quietly and just when I thought she was done- "so you're not bound like Terowin is?"

_Bound?_ A sudden flash of memory seized me as I recalled that brilliant handshake between him and Tirion Fordring over a month ago. Is that what that was? Some form of Holy Contract of Binding?

"Not that I'm aware of," I muttered. Or at least, not to the Argent Crusade.

"Interesting. So, do you want to see your family again?" I nearly faltered in my steps.

My family? I hadn't had any recollections of a family up until now. Mort, yes. Edmund, to an extent. A few faces here and there at the Undercity and even they were jumbled images. But a family?

"I don't think I have one." I uttered back.

"Oh, wish I could say the same."

"Is that so?" I replied offhandedly, avoiding a low, protruding root from the dirt walls. Surely there should be at least one patrol in these tunnels, right?

"Yep. We were born somewhere in Westfall but grew up in Stormwind. Beautiful city, loved it there. Have you ever been?"

"Not to my recollections," I said, straining for even the smallest of foreign noises, my blades at the ready. I didn't make much noise in my belted chainmail shirt, luckily. It fell to mid-thigh, over leather trousers and boots. Alongside my plain swords, we had 'borrowed' my getup from the armoury stockpile gathered in Valgarde. Luciya certainly had nimble fingers to acquire these- or other, more _convincing_ ways of relinquishing them from storage. Either way, she didn't tell me and I didn't ask. She handed me the small pile before we had left earlier tonight and that was all that matters. I had free movement should I require it, but after my first fight in Valgarde, I thought a little bit of extra protection might go a long way in guarding my seemingly frail immortality.

"It was amazing- especially during the festivals. Colours everywhere and people laughing. There was this one bakery in the Trade District that would make little biscuit shapes to correspond with the holidays, such talent!" She sounded very happy to reminisce- I could almost envision little snowflake pastries and multi-coloured, egg-shaped cakes. The Harvest festival brought on vegetable-looking sweetcakes, now _that_ was bizarre. Indeed, it sounded pleasant, but given the time and place, I could care less about it.

"Spring was my favourite time of the year," she continued. By The Light, didn't she stop _talking_?

"The birds always came out in springtime, I listened to their songs in the mornings when I woke up. My room was the highest up in the brothel- up in the attic, so by the time I arose about midday they were in full swing with their music. Oh, it was wonderful." This 'mature woman' sounded more like a girlish schoolchild than the top engineer and 'night time entertainer' that she was. Her words, not mine.

"Just how old are you, anyway?" I challenged, wanting to know.

"Me? I'm twenty se- six. Why do you ask?" _Seriously?_ She acted so much younger.

"No reason, just curious."

"Oh. What about you?"

"Difficult question really," I replied distractedly, still listening for the slightest of foreign noise. "I was Turned when I was eighteen. It has been three years since then. So, eighteen or twenty one, take your pick dependant on how technical you want to be."

"Twenty one then. But- does that mean you didn't celebrate your last three birthdays?" At this I turned to her, raising an amused eyebrow.

"What do you think?" I laughed. In all honestly, I didn't recall any of my training, so for all I knew, maybe I did celebrate my birthday, but somehow I doubted it. The thought of Terowin or Deathweaver sporting brightly coloured party hats nearly made me laugh out loud. The woman behind me grinned, possibly envisioning something similar. We fell into a silence once more, walking on further down the long tunnel. When would it _end_?

"It's one thing I miss out here, is the birds." Luciya softly started again, obviously not enjoying the quietness. "Any around here that I've seen are vultures or hawks. No songbirds," she sighed. Still we were descending, cautiously and slowly in case a quick exit is needed; though the likelihood of using such an avoidance tactic were slimming the further we walked. Even though there was sporadic torchlight spaced out going down, the tunnel was seemingly empty of life. It unnerved me.

"Why did you leave then, if it was so magnificent?" I couldn't even begin to understand why I thought continuing the conversation was a good idea, though a small thought at the back of my mind whispered ' _because you're lonely._ ' To which I promptly ignored.

"Circumstance here and there. They needed engineers, I wanted out of Stormwind, it was perfect." I could almost hear her shrug from behind me.

"Wait- how does a harlot end up as an engineer in the first place?"

"A hobby, I suppose you could say." She drifted off into a merciful silence, our slow footfalls making the only noises. Strange choice for a hobby. If it were me, I might take up flower-pressing or book-collecting. Not engineering. Where do you start with it? All of those little nuts and bolts… Eurgh, no thank you.

"You know, I do appreciate you sticking your neck out to help me get this manual. I've asked two or three others and was turned down." Clearly something she is unused to judging by her offended tone.

"Well they probably didn't have important information being dangled in front of them like a juicy bone to a starved dog, did they?" I retorted, not looking to see her reaction behind. She stayed silent for a moment after that, something I took a little bit of satisfaction from.

"Yeah…There's something I should probably tell you about your man, Ed," she said. Almost wistfully, in fact. I paused to view her, why would she-?

"What do you mean 'tell me about-"

"Shh!" She proclaimed, placing a hand over my mouth. I made to pull it off but she grabbed the back of my head to keep me still.

"What the-!" I said muffled but she hushed me again.

And then I heard it. Stilling, I strained my hearing further, filtering out Luciya's close breathing and the pulse I felt between her hands. The sound- it was the soft fluttering sound that only bird wings could produce. Obviously seeing I had noticed, she removed her hands slowly from my face and bent her head to listen.

"Is that-" she started.

"Yes. I thought you said there weren't any other birds _in_ Northrend? Why would there be an aviary this far underground?" I mused quietly. Luciya just glanced at me with wide eyes and shook her head, shrugging. Placing one finger over my mouth, I signalled my leadership and moved forward. The air pressure altered ever so slightly, my body's physical awareness alert to the ending of the tunnel arriving upon us. Peering around the last spiralled bend, I viewed a large wooden entranceway opening up into a paved tunnel system. The origins of the wings remained out of sight.

"You can come now," I called mutedly. She peered around the corner, content at my judgement in the assessment of the situation. She walked very softly and deliberately in such a way that the many pouches and strange tools on her belt were saved from moving too much. The woollen cloak that fell around her- even though still wet- helped to conceal the sounds. We surveyed the beamed archway a little longer, making sure no patrols routed along our desired path.

"Now that we're here, this seems a bit more daunting," she whispered next to me, unable to tear her eyes away from the long corridor. I had to agree, this seemed bigger than us both all of a sudden. But she needed that book and I needed that information.

"Come on," I urged. Taking point, my bare hands wrapped tightly around the leather-bound hilts of my swords like Terowin had shown me, I tensed myself, ready for any attacker.

And so we entered the Catacombs.

* * *

My sole purpose in coming on this 'mission' was to protect Luciya. She was unskilled and untrained in formal combat- hell, any type of combat- and refused to shed blood. By blackmailing me into coming, almost, she had guaranteed her safety, for without her, I couldn't find out more about Edmund.

However, locked in combat with the Vrykul that had nearly flattened me, I had to question just how capable I was of my intended role tonight.

We had made it a ways into the tunnel before the origins of the beating wings was found- and it was not an aviary.

There were winged, scantily-clad, blue, incorporeal _women_ flying in the next chamber over. Both of us came to a complete standstill upon seeing them- Luciya right at my back, neither of us making a sound. We watched on as they flew about in and out of off-shooting corridors or chambers from afar, ready to flee if one came our way. They didn't.

"Are they hostile?" she asked of me, never drawing her gaze from the haunting forms. I shook my head, I had no idea _what_ they were, never mind who they followed orders from. An anguished cry drew our attention to a cornered nook somewhere off the main corridor. I couldn't see from the angle we were positioned at but it sounded like a living-person-kind-of-sound.

"I don't like this. I don't like this at all," Luciya spoke, quite obviously on edge from the eerie figures overhead. In fact, upon closer inspection, I think she had broken out in a cold sweat. Her hair was still plastered to her face where it had escaped her hair tie, no longer dripping onto her cloak. But even so, she was shivering a little. My own hair was tied at the base of my neck using the ribbon Talia had provided for me, it was one of the few items I had even touched again since emptying the bag on the first night here.

We watched on for a few more minutes, possibly longer, to determine if the beings were going to move, but it didn't look likely. A few more pained cries- several different voices, punctured the silence every now and then. Some were shrieks, others moans and some just whimpering to be barely heard. Finally I made a decision to move things along, partially because sitting here was doing nothing and secondly, time was running out.

So when we moved forward oh-so-carefully, only keeping my eyes on the aerial targets far in front of me, I didn't notice that there were cornered nooks either side of us embedded in the walls.

So I was attacked.

He was fast, barely making any sounds as we had carefully entered into the deep vault, but that wasn't my priority in thought at the moments. Avoiding each of his hard attacks was. I heard a scream that was not my own and my callow reflexes sprung into action.

I parried the first blow barely, my attacker roaring loudly and therefore announcing his charge. He was thrown off balance for a moment as I side-stepped his slow blow and thrust my own blade into his side, getting perhaps a couple of inches deep through his leather jerkin- enough to cut and hurt, but not wound or injure critically. The Vrykul turned sharply, clutching his large axe with two hands and swinging low. I paused mid-attack and jumped backwards, cursing the ill-fitting armour I was wearing. No, it was restricting my movements and fluidity more than I had actually anticipated. Up until now I had practiced armour-free with Terowin. _Damn it!_

Twin-braids tried a straight-over-head-swing down at me which I had to quickly roll on the floor to get away from because Death Knight or not, being split clean down the middle wasn't going to be survivable. He swung wildly sometimes and others they almost seemed calculated. I found it hard to find an opening in his defence- or lack of, his general size was enough to defend him against my five-foot-something. Standing at a good seven, possibly more, feet taller than me gave him _some_ advantage; probably better weapons training too. It wasn't hard to see that I was struggling to hold my ground.

We carried on for a few more minutes, neither gaining the upper hand. I had managed a few more jabs in at his chest and leg-areas, but failed to make anything crucial or fatal. Be that as it may, if there was one advantage to the curse I was currently under, it was that I did not tire- unlike my opponent. Late at night, probably weary from a hard days labour, he was most likely already tired and then he tried to take on me; me who had an indefinite amount of stamina and would not slow any time soon. Take into account the small wounds he now sported, it all piled up into a sluggish giant.

The fool.

Taking the opportunity to do a hard-parry to his sloppy side-blow, I moved to within an inch of him to thrust from straight under his encircled arms and up through his sternum. I felt as the weapon charged through the body, uncaring about anything in its path until my arm was fully stretched to accommodate. The skewering was so forceful that my sword came out at the hollow of his throat, the tip just touching his chin. His axe clattered to the ground, echoing in the hall. The gurgling from his neck filled my ears with its sweet sound and I quickly dropped my knees to withdraw the blade from the vertical angle I had thrust it in. He stumbled backwards, collapsing into the rapidly growing puddle of blood, not even trying to staunch the wound; such was the shock of his injury. By my calculations his lungs and possibly even his heart should have been pierced.

Stalking slowly up to him, I pressed the tip of one of my blades to just below his ribcage and pushed softly. He jerked in reaction, face already a mask of magnificent horror beneath tangled and two matted braids. I pressed a little harder, breaking each organic barrier, tearing muscle and felt the resistance of an organ in the way. A little more pressure popped the organ like a burst waterskin, the blood squirting and forcing its way out of the unnatural opening decorating the already-coated weapon. Eyes staring up at nothing, his life's force running out of his slack mouth, my opponent seemed less intimidating on the ground. The body had stopped twitching now.

Placing one boot on the large chest, I pulled my blade from out of the body and admired my handiwork. Untidy, but successful, I surmised. All I needed to do now was chop it up into little-

A noise from behind me alerted me to another presence; I turned quickly, remembering that Luciya was down here with me. I had forgotten about her during the fight, so focussed was I. Seeking for her orange hair I was thrown off kilter entirely when a somewhat-brightly-armoured-and-definitely-not-fema le figure faced me instead.

Oh, _Lux Sancta.  
_


	17. Mercy

Before we arrived in Northrend- hell, before we'd even left the Plaguelands- Terowin had pissed our mutual 'superior' off in a bad way with his attitude. And he had suffered for it. Since then Terowin was better behaved than a dog on a leash around him and did nothing to step a single greyish-green toe out of line, acting like he was top of the class trying to suck up to the teacher.

And then there was me.

So far my track record included murdering and then retrieving a fellow soldier, saving his ass by way of mutilation and decapitation, upsetting or offending Mort and nearly getting killed on the frontlines were it not for the efforts of another soldier. Combine all of that together and you have a rather large pile of trouble between me and the man standing before me, a bit of bad blood, one might say. He hated me and I was ignorant of him.

And even then, if I were to be punished for something that was all of the above combined and amplified threefold it would _still_ pale in comparison to the trials and retribution no doubt headed my way for my actions this night. We'd be starting with sneaking out of the Port into the heart of the enemy territory. With a Civilian. And Stolen armaments. Without permission.

Safe to say, I was going to die.

If Captain Ryndan Firesworn thought that killing me on the spot would indeed solve all of his problems without any further consequence, I doubt I would still be standing right now looking at him.

"Can you open these cages?" He asked in general, never removing his glower from me. Luciya poked around from behind him- she was actually _shaking_ from the fright of his presence. She mumbled something and moved into the cornered nooks, nearly tripping on her own feet. Fumbling with her belt-of-many-pouches she moved towards two occupied grates that I had previously unnoticed. I suppose being attacked without warning is a good excuse to not take in one's surroundings.

The other open area opposite also possessed three cages, however only one was occupied- the other two empty barring decaying corpses. All of the living prisoners were whimpering and clinging to their bars- a small glimmer of freedom hanging before them. Luciya was still busy trying to alter the locks and I was trying to avoid looking anywhere apart from the elven man standing not ten feet away- the one still boring a hole into my face with his scowl.

"Once these people are free take them back to Port. There are two Defenders standing watch at the entrance who will aid you. Make haste," he threw to Luciya, who nervously nodded, words escaping her in fear probably. But with that he stalked to me, garbed in black and gold-rimmed armour and dragged me further into the vault by way of my upper arm. Stumbling I followed, attempting to keep my feet one in front of the other while being pulled at an awkward angle. Oh, and I hadn't sheathed my swords yet either. I doubt I could penetrate his armour but I didn't want to risk even _scratching_ it and make the matter worse. Not that I'm sure that 'worse' was even possible at this stage.

"Do- don't you think we should s-slow _down_?" Not only was I desperate for my arm back, but I was wary of running into a Vrykul. We had already walked far enough to be out of sight of Luciya, and I wasn't sure just how busy this place was supposed to be.

"We will stop when I say we stop." Well, that tone certainly indicated that not only did my opinion not matter but I would be wise to not voice it again. Or anything again. Ever.

We were within view of the winged women now, each just floating carelessly about above our heads, doing who-knew-what. I wasn't even sure they knew we were there. Firesworn had more guts than I thought if charging into this part of the vault without a single thought to these weird creatures was a good idea. What if they were hostile? Suddenly m[nworld span for a moment as my body was forced against a hard surface.

"Oomph! Oi, watch it!" I cried, being slammed into a wall was not my idea of fun whether I felt pain or not. Manners, people. Pulling myself to standing straight I found I was now eye-to-eye with the Captain, his face dangerously close as he cornered me against the woodwork. I could actually see the irises beyond the green glow of his eyes, and they were dilated. Oh, Holy Light I was in trouble now-

"How did you contact Walden?" he demanded. I threw my sword-less hands in the air, my weapons now safely ensconced in their scabbards.

"Look, it was her idea to come here, I just- _what?_ "

"Do not make me repeat myself." I could feel his hot breath on my skin in this proximity, the temperature almost seeming to burn. I took it as a polite, _non-painful_ warning of the state of his temper. I responded quickly.

"First, I haven't contacted Mort, err, Walden, that is. And second- _what?"  
_  
"You must have, how else did he deposit the letter in my tent? You must have been the one to tell him our location!"

"Now hang on a minute," I pushed off the wall to stand taller, invading _his_ personal space- "I haven't spoken to him since before setting foot on Northrend, so don't you dare insinuate that I am a liar, Firesworn!" Truthfully I had no idea Mort was even on the continent, never mind knew where we were.

His voiced dropped dangerously low. "That's _Captain_ Firesworn, girl. And if you didn't contact him, then how did he know, and how did he place this letter in my tent?" At this, supposedly said letter was pulled from out of his chestplate and shoved in my face.

"This is the letter, and you're telling me you have _nothing_ to do with it?" With both of our tempers reaching their peaks and an enemy due to pop round the corner at any moment, I was reminded of our last argument which had us in similar positions. Unable to breathe a sigh of frustration, I put my anger on hold instead and grabbed the paper from his hands. Unfolding it, before he could react I simply stared at the letter.

"I can't read this, so that's proof that I have nothing to do with your problem." Folding the letter, I held it back to a very bewildered looking Captain, my face not looking to brook any argument. Well it's not my fault that he's receiving mysterious foreign love notes. Why should that be my business?

"Is that so," he drawled.

"Yes, _that is so_ ," I mimicked. Probably not the best way to get back on his good side. After all, sneaking out of camp when it's strictly forbidden is enough to probably earn my place on some gallows somewhere no doubt, but he had pissed me off. Staring icily at me, he flickered between the letter and me before folding it away. I had to give him credit- he was really good at containing his temper. I know that if it were me, I would have slapped myself silly several times by now.

"Move," he commanded. Well…alright then. And so I followed him, the issue seemingly resolved. I couldn't help but watch the bird-creatures above me, their soft fluttering humming a small tune as they moved. It was hauntingly beautiful. And because I was so distracted, I managed to walk straight into Firesworn's back, earning another terse chastising form The Almighty One.

"Why are we going deeper in?" I asked, genuinely curious as to why my ass wasn't being hauled back up top to be punted onto the next boat out of Valgarde. A thought cross my mind. Oh, _By The Light_ , was he actually going to kill me down here and leave me to rot? Because that would _not_ be happening-

"Because we are getting that Harpoon Manual and also I have been primarily tasked with finding someone who has gone missing." Not my imminent death then. His voice was distracted, no doubt keeping an overly-long ear out for any threats. I was surprised he was still speaking to me, in all honesty.

"Oh, right. Well…good." I suppose it was, if we could find it then not only would this mission not be in vain, but Luciya could finally divulge that information about Edmund and I would keep my accursed life. However there was one thing strange about this-

"Why do I have to come with you? Are you keeping an eye on me? Think I'm untrustworthy or something?"

"Hush, girl." Oh _now_ he wants silence? We were still slowly walking down the dimmed corridor. Firesworn had small puffs of breath emitting from his mouth, so I assumed it was cold down here.

"I was just asking." I mumbled. He rounded on me in one quick move.

"It is because you are deadly, and that can come in use. Are you satisfied? If so, then kindly _shut your mouth_." Well, _I never._ So he wanted my oh-so-useful combat abilities, eh? Well, well, well, poor Captain Firesworn was scared of the giants.

Or apparently not.

When we encountered the first threat since Twin-braids back there, the only thing I could do was stand back and watch as the Elf deftly and quietly killed the giant without so much as a by-your-leave. He fell to the floor with an ungracious ' _thump'_ , a small pile of blood pooling where his skull met the paved floor. That will be such a pain to clean, I reckoned.

"By The Light, that was intense- Are you sure you need me? Because I really don't mind heading back up-" I started. If that was how powerful he was, then yeah, I figured I was superfluous here.

"Silence, please." Oh, a 'please' this time? We were well on the route back to happy friendship then, excellent. We started to move again, his two-handed sword now taking point in front of him. Halting down a ways, I peeked around his armoured form to see that we had arrived at a junction. Right, this'll be where it gets interesting, which way to go- to the left? Straight ahead? The stairway? Eenie-meenie-minie-

"Come."

To the left, apparently. Checking for any patrols or passersby, we were greeted by an empty hall and so proceeded down the left, which turned out to be a dead end as far as I could see.

"So, not this way then?" I surmised.

"Definitely this way, now move." Oh, right. Well fine then. Following in his wake once more, we crept slowly down the corridor, careful not to creak or jingle our armour more than necessary. Our caution was not in vain. We soon came into view of a row of beds flanking our route- and two of them were occupied. I stifled a curse at the last moment. Firesworn threw out his hand, indicating silence by pressing his fingers to his lips. Be quiet you say? No kidding, smartass.

Edging our way forward as to not wake the sleeping Vrykul, we managed not to disturb them, the snores emitting from both masking any subtle noises we made. The esteemed elf Captain was perfectly content to just stealth past the creatures- I, however, was not.

With a final glance at his ornately-caped back, I quickly sidestepped, swiftly drew one of my swords and slit the throat of the biggest dreamer. I threw my body on top of his neck and jaw, muffling his gurgles and failed calls for aid. I gripped tightly to his shoulder and head, the man writhing desperately beneath me. The blood cascaded, coating my mailshirt further as he flailed about under my pin. Just as he was reaching the climax of his drowning, I was thrown back onto the floor- a swift kick impacting my gut and forcing me to hunch. Firesworn kicked my sword from my hand and descended on me.

"What in The Holy Light's name are you _doing_ , you stupid, _stupid_ girl?!" His voice was a callous whisper, scarce controlled. Standing over me at full height, two-handed sword aimed very deliberately a few inches above my heart and an expression that could only prelude murder, Ryndan Firesworn was terrifying to behold. There was something in the recess of my ribcage that contracted, understanding the intimidation and power that this man truly had over me at this point in time. He had one plated boot situated in the centre of my chest and I couldn't find any leeway to move. I was completely at his mercy- and I was scared.

"I rid of him before he could murder us!" I called back, attempting to lift my upper body – it was for naught.

"That is _not_ how the Argent Dawn works!" he spoke through gritted teeth, spit landing on my face.

"Correction! That is not how _you_ work! Don't know if you've noticed this, _Ryndan_ , but I am not like you!" Something flashed in his eyes, his mouth contorting into something unkind.

"That was cold-blooded murder-" he sneered.

"Well noticed! It was cold-blooded _and_ pre-emptive. It was him or us. Hell, maybe even one of your precious soldiers on the battlefield during the next raid. It was kill him now, or kill him later when he's had a go at some of _your_ men!"

"And I suppose you were going to chop him up, like you wanted to your last kill, _Hacker_?"

"Yes! I did! I wanted to see his entrails spread across this cold stone floor like he deserves!" Eyes widened in disgust, probably, he lifted his boot and just stared at me. Even when I stood up he was still examining me like an alien artefact.

"There is something very wrong with you, girl."

"But was I wrong to kill him?" I could still feel the blood soaking through my undershirt, the front of my chainmail dyed an ominous red.

"That's besi-" A large _bang_ echoed down through the halls, seemingly coming from where we had entered the catacombs. Sharing a look of on-edge surprise, Ryndan and I were startled, unsure as to what exactly went 'boom'. It seemed we weren't the only ones to hear it either- the other Vrykul was stirring in his cot. The Captain cursed, striding quickly to the other set of beds. Mirroring me in intention but not form, Firesworn plunged his blade into his chest- an intense light emanated from his sword blinding me harshly.

"Ahh ! To hell with you, Firesworn!" I cursed him as the burning sensation grew more intense beneath my eyelids. My eyeballs were melting in their sockets. The _pain_! _Oh Light it's KILLING ME_! It's-in-my- _head!_

"Cersae! _Cersae!_ Stop screaming, woman!" The pain receded without warning, the memory lingering in the depths of my nerves. I was on the floor again, Firesworn over me, but not in a display of dominance this time, rather it was concern. I blinked, trying to rid my skull of the dull thudding.

"Wh-what was that?" I sat up, feeling _very_ shaken from the intensity of what I had just felt.

"I invoked the Holy Power of The Light- what was _that?_ " he asked, still hovering about me. I could see clearly, my vision unimpaired.

"I have no idea-"

"Have you experienced it before?" he cut across, eyes wondering up and down me. As far as I could tell, there were no physical injuries, just the haunting feelings of excruciating agony.

"No I-" Wait, my body said. Yes, I had. When Terowin shook hands with Fordring after his execution escape; The Light from back then had burned into me too. "Yes. Once before, caused by the same source of power." I muttered, stilling my trembling hands.

"By The Light?" he asked. I nodded my response. i noted that there was some blood spatter on his flushed face, no doubt from the kill he had just made.

"But why would-" We both turned to the end of the corridor, a low groaning making itself known. Ryndan held out his hand, to which I used to lever myself up. Gathering my disarmed weapons, we made our way cautiously down the hallway, listening intently for whatever-or whomever- was moaning. The elven man beside me quickly uttered a cuss and sprinted forward, his black-and-gold-trimmed armour protesting. I followed in his wake, just as soon dropping my weapons as Ryndan fell to the floor.

" _Ares_ ," he whispered, and not without emotion.

It was a man. Half-naked, lying on an altar and severely wounded; perhaps fatally even. The man in question- Ares- responded to the Captain's voice, grunting in pain in an attempt to see him better.

"Stay your movement, Ares, I will heal you-"

"No-o," Ares rasped, clambering to stop Ryndan's hands, they were already furtively working to repair his injuries, lightly spreading over the man's battered torso.

"Ares, I must or you will-"

"Ryndan, there is something-"he started to hack, breathing and thereby talking was a task too great for him. He had fluid in his lungs, blood most likely by my guess. Seeing how bruised his chest was, I would wager a punctured lung, cracked-if-not-broken ribs and internal bleeding. His extremities were a shade too blue for my liking.

"-Something…m-more im-imp- _portant_ than I." Each word was a strain on his system, his eyes wide, fair hair matted with his own blood and dirt, plastered on his face. He wasn't seeing daylight again. I could only watch on as Ryndan clasped this man's hand with his own, trying to send him whatever he could that would prevent the inevitable. I felt helpless. Here this man was dying and I couldn't do anything. Frustration built up in me until I could bear it no more. Turning swiftly on my heel I stalked up the vault, ripped two blankets and a straw-stuffed pillow from the unused beds and dragged them back down to the pair.

"-Must retrieve it! It is-" he was still talking? Whatever he needed to convey was worth more than his life, in his mind. Just as well, seeing as he didn't have much of it left.

"Not more valuable than your life, Ares. Please, my friend; let me help you," Ryndan was pleading with him, echoing my thoughts but getting nowhere. Frowning, I reached for his armoured shoulder, showing him the blankets.

"Whatever it is- go get it, I can make him more comfortable." I told him. To prove this, I gently placed the pillow beneath Ares' head, his breathing easing a fraction. Rolling the first blanket up, I moved around the kneeling Paladin to place it under Ares' wounded legs, elevating them. Ryndan watched me in mixed fascination and confusion, I couldn't blame him. Something overcame me and I needed to help this man. I didn't know what it was, but my body knew what to do, so I allowed it. I started tearing the second blanket into strips, my time with Talia making me a dab-hand at making and using bandages in all of their glory.

"Go, he will be safe, I promise. I will protect him." Ryndan was torn and I didn't envy his decision making. Leave his friend in my sole care or watch him die without completing his mission, forever haunted with failure.

"P-please, Ryndan. D-do not m-make me b-b- _break_ my oath!" he coughed again, blood accompanying it. Caught in anguish, I sent what I hope to be a reassuring nod to the elf. It seemed to work. Resolve hardened his face, so whatever he was to do, he had to steel himself for it. He stood, grave faced and determined. I knelt in his place, taking the fallen hand of his friend. Ares' shoulder's slumped in relief as Ryndan vowed to carry on whatever his task was in this accursed vaults. His pale brown eyes found me. I tried to offer a comforting smile, ignoring the smell of death lingering around him.

"Hail, M-my L-lady," he coughed again, earning a shush from me.

"It's fine, and believe me. I am no lady." He gave a small smile at me, squeezing my pale hand softly.

"You are like a-an angel, h-haloed in light," he strained a whisper. Poetic, bless him, but untrue.

"Thank you, Sir. What can I do to help your pain?" He was grimacing, sometimes squeezing his eyes shut in pain.

"S-speak to me. Please. T-tell me a-about yours-self." His breathing was becoming more laboured. I panicked internally, not sure what to say. Once more in the last few minutes my body overtook me and started to babble. Anything to ease this man's passing. I started to wrap the handmade bandages around his cuts and fractures.

"Well, I grew up in a city, I think. Lots of birds, smells of bakeries and the like." I drew inspiration from Luciya's description, hoping it was working. "The holidays brought lots of colours, costumes, songs and parties. I liked the spring festival, with egg hunts, eating sweets and parades. It was good, people were happy." My talking seemed to be working, his eyes were closed, a relaxed smile on his face. I did the only thing I could and continued. "At night there could be fireworks, bonfires, masquerades- though I never went to any of those, I was too young. Umm, oh, and the dock bells. I could always hear them from my bedroom window at night. The clock tower also struck on the hour, but it was a deeper, much older sound. The dock bells were busier, I thought. Let's see…what else. Well, there was the church, where you could pray. The hymns sung inside could be heard in the courtyards approaching it, if I remember correctly. Sometimes I would walk by and join in." I trailed off, checking his wrist for a pulse. Weak, but still there. And so I carried on speaking, saying everything and anything I could to distract him.

I had no idea where my improvised monologue had come from; I was just trying to make up anything to help Ares. Yet in my concentration of storytelling and bandage-wrapping, I hadn't noticed right away that he had already passed. Feeling a small wave of regret, I lay his loose hand on top of his chest, resting its partner there also. I turned on the spot, leaning back against the altar. The corridor ahead of me was empty and eerie. If I listened hard enough, I could just hear the wings that had greeted our entrance into the catacombs initially. I don't know when Firesworn disappeared- or where to, but I hoped he'd be back soon. How long ago did he leave…?

I wanted to sigh in my boredom, but I didn't, knowing no feeling of fulfilment would occur from it. Glancing to my right I saw a pile of old books, discarded in an untidy heap. Despicable way to treat tomes if you ask me. Deciding that staying on the spot was probably a good idea as to not get deeper into trouble, I reached out for a couple to flick through. They were nothing interesting. One on history, a storybook, a guide to herbs and their uses, one so scrawled it was unintelligibl- some sort of dated journal, I was unsure given it was in a foreign tongue. A guidebook of some description- a manual? I turned each leaf, the next page after page revealing more and more. This was it! The Harpoon Weapon Manual! Signed at the front was a scribbled " _Chief Engineer G. Crankwheel"._ Yes!

Elation took over as I checked that each page was intact. Drawings, schematics, notes and equations greeted me, and while I had no idea what they meant specifically, it was clear enough that this was the manual Luciya wanted. She would be ecstatic, and then I could hear about Edmund and hopefully take that one step closer to finding him-

"What the hell?!" I jumped up as something touched my neck. Ares' hand…it had fallen from his chest. Right. Memo to self, try to be less happy in the presence of a fallen comrade. Sobering up, I rearranged him again, confident he wasn't going to move. Seeing the dirt and blood on him irked me. A quick search revealed a pail of slightly dirty water by the beds. The two bodies still lay in them, their coarse mattresses soaked through with blood now. Ignoring them, I took another blanket and the bucket and gently washed Ares. He didn't look that old to me. Possibly the same age as Ryndan? Older? Who knew, but still, it seemed a shame.

Speaking of Ryndan, where on earth was he? After talking for a good twenty minutes, by my estimation, then a further ten or so flicking through books…and then taking a little bit longer to clean up Ares...surely we must be bordering on an hour now? Nearby candles surrounding the altar had wilted a fair bit, lit by someone inattentive judging by the fact I had remained undisturbed for so long. _Or had they found someone else to distract them?_ my mind asked.

I didn't like this. Ryndan shouldn't have been gone this long – and on his own. It hadn't escaped me how drawn he had looked in his anger. It was quite late at night- or early in the morning, possibly two to three hours after midnight. He probably hadn't slept, and he was in that heavy-looking armour… Glancing at Ares I decided he wasn't going anywhere and we could retrieve him later. Tucking the manual safely into my mail shirt I walked away from the altar. Picking up my swords again I walked to the end of the long corridor. A final look to the man now at peace, I headed out into the vaults.

I found him eventually.

Entering a large, round room I saw cages scattered about. Some had occupants, others empty or open. A cage near the doorway had a rowdy dwarf claiming that if released, he'd show them exactly what he was made of- no one paid him any attention. He saw me, hovering by the archway, unsure as to my loyalties probably before saying anything. I whispered to him where I was from and who I was looking for. He looked surprised and then harrowed. Nodding grimly into the centre it took me a moment to realise why he pulled such a face.

Several hulking, furskin-clad Vrykul were jeering and shouting from about the room, weapons in their hands, some dripping blood. A skirmish was taking place in the middle, the sound of metal-on-metal ringing out. Catching glimpses between onlookers, I felt my body go cold. I swore.

Ryndan was standing dead centre, something covered strapped across his back, fighting for his life.

The bad thing was, he was losing, and fast.

 


	18. To Revelate and Revolt

"Are you remaining with us this time, Captain Firesworn?"

Said Captain Firesworn groggily fought to open his eyes; a light canvas coming into focus above him. That voice…

"C-Commander? Is that you?" his voice was rough and his throat felt like glass had been forced down it.

"Aye, it is. Try not to move so much. You have been in and out of consciousness for two days now." She must be somewhere to his left, but he couldn't find the energy to move his neck- or the motivation to even try.

"Where am I?" He struggled to say, each word scraping his windpipe coarsely.

"Valgarde, you were returned to us two mornings ago, just as the sun was rising- or so I am told." He couldn't remember what had caused him to be in this state. Exhaustion swept over him quickly, his conscious catching up to all the aches and pains his body was currently suffering. He grunted as each limb reconnected to his mind, informing him of exactly how beaten he was.

"Do not strain yourself, you are badly injured- ah, Anchorite Yazmina, thank you for coming, he is awake again." Shuffling was heard to his right, but the dominant sense overtaking his attention was derived from the injuries inflicted all over him. His chest felt crushed, both legs had sharp pains striking through them at irregular intervals and his arms felt heavier than lead.

"Come, Captain, sit up a little." Yazmina stood before him, a ladle of water being held out to him. With great effort and some aid from the draenei he managed to lift his head enough to drink. Most dribbled down his chin, but the cold water that he caught soothed his throat as he swallowed- it was divine.

"There, you'll be a little _dehyderated_ considering how long you have been asleep for, so it is best to water you now." Her accented voice calming his nerves, he grimaced and repositioned his head on the pillow. Yazmina delicately tucked the blankets around him, sealing in the warmth beneath. His thighs were throbbing with soreness, his knees trying to convince him that they would never work again. One attempt to flex his toes sent agony shooting up his entirety. Able to move his stiff neck a little, he saw Commander Ashwood sitting up in a bed beside him, her hands folded on her blanketed lap watching him quietly. Devoid of her normal armour and sabres she appeared quite non-threatening. The shawl around her shoulders probably softened her image too, he thought.

"You-you're back," he said hoarsely.

"Yes, indeed we are. For whatever reason, the Forsaken held a ceasefire in their bombings two days ago, granting us enough time to just recover and to mount the rescue mission. Needless to say, we are all a little weak now." Ryndan heard what she said but struggled to comprehend it properly. His head was pounding and blinding his vision, his face felt swollen whenever he winced and all he could do to escape was close his eyes. Groaning he sunk further into his bedding, a poor attempt to run away from all the suffering he was under. Somewhere in the back of his mind he hoped she would forgive his impropriety.

"Open your mouth please, Captain," Yazmina instructed. Without looking as to why, Ryndan did and nearly regretted it when a few drops of something awful fell upon his tongue. Nearly spitting it out, a soft hand covered his mouth to prevent that and forced him to swallow.

"I apologise, Captain, but you spat it out last night and ended up flailing for a quarter of an hour in agony before we asked dear Lorik to hold you down." Shame flooded him despite not recalling such an episode. A damp cloth was placed on his forehead, wiping away the beads of sweat causing his ear-length hair to cling to him desperately.

"What happened?" his voice was slurred, the edge of the pain slightly coming off in his delirium.

"Hush now, we'll talk about it once you are recovered," a woman said- he couldn't identify whom. Sleep embraced him and took the elf unto its arms.

* * *

_Twenty one days after landing in Northrend._

"You wanted to see me, Captain?" she said beside him, standing next to the chair he had specifically asked for.

"Yes, sit down. Please." He croaked. Despite feeling much better rested up, most of his injuries well on the way to recovery, Ryndan still felt very weak and vulnerable.

"Um, alright." With all the grace she could muster, no doubt, Cersae sat down in the chair beside him. Commander Ashwood had been declared fit not too long ago, leaving the healer's tents for her own with the aid of McGreaves, slowly coming up to speed with the success of her rescue mission and what had occurred in her absence. No one else resided in this tent, he had asked for privacy from the medical staff.

"I fear we have much to discuss, you and I," he started, regarding her. If he didn't think his eyes were deceiving him, he would have said she had lost weight and sleep, if it were possible for her. In the light of recent revelations regarding the girl's physical welfare that he acted upon not two weeks ago, he would have thought this odd. She only nodded in response, not meeting his eyes, the muscles in her neck sharply moving with each turn of her head.

"Your hair- it has been cut?" true enough, where it was mid-back length, her colourless hair now sat in an untidy bob about her shoulders. She shifted, awkwardly twirling a strand at the mention. Most blood elves- male and female, in his experience, grew their hair long, and even though hers hadn't been considered long by elven standards, he still found himself mourning the loss of a foot or so of it. Despite keeping his own hair short for practicality, he always thought women should have long hair.

"Yeah it kind of got chopped off when we- well, when I…that is to say- in the catacombs. Sir." Why was she so nervous about him? "Father Favian has offered to tidy it up once he's found some suitable scissors," she mumbled. He didn't know who Father Favian was, must be one of her campfire companions.

"I see. Well, it suits you." It didn't in reality, her hollow eyes and cheeks, her greyish skin and blind eyes making her look more like a Forsaken than the elf she was. He was just trying to make light of the situation. Being around five women in his household taught him that flattery tended to make them feel at ease, or at least dull their tempers. Even so silence permeated the tent, neither sure how to broach the subject of the Catacombs. Since he called her here, he figured he should start.

"I owe you my life once again, it would seem. Thank you for that. I am in your debt." He bowed his head, not missing the look of panic on her face. She waved her hands rapidly.

"Oh, no it's fine, honestly, no debt-owing here."

"Well, it is customary-"

"Seriously, it's fine. Please, don't mention it." She looked so terrified at the prospect that he couldn't push it any further. Confused, Ryndan moved on.

"Alright. Can you tell me what happened then?" She eyed him warily as if he were playing a cruel joke on her. _Why was she so jumpy?_

"You… you don't remember?" She asked cautiously her eyes pleading with him to recall something. A few flashes here and there had penetrated Ryndan's dreams, all of them drenched in blood, but he felt he should give her a chance to explain in case he was wrong.

"I do not; it would appear I suffered a blow to my head at some point." A dull thudding in his skull attested to this theory, not really having left him since awakening yesterday. To his ashamed amusement, he found that this plain girl looked like a rabbit caught in front of a fox, ready to be devoured. Now would she run or fight the hunter?

"Oh, Holy Light save me," she muttered, drawing over her face with one small hand.

"Why do you say that?"

"Why, you ask? Well I get the _pleasure_ of explaining exactly what-"

"No, you misunderstand. Why do you use that particular phrase? I have heard you say it before. It is not a common exclamation." At least not in the general populace, among his fellow Crusaders however, it was very common.

"Err, I don't think I could tell you really." She frowned, searching for some origin of her pronouncement. Judging by the soft shaking of her head, she made no progress. He put her out of her misery.

"Never mind, carry on, please." She attempted something akin to a frustrated sigh but all that happened was she filled with air and was unable to deflate, giving her the illusion of sitting up far straighter and stronger. She groaned in frustration.

"Damned body… right, look. I had spent a long time with Airs or erm, what's his name- "

"Ares," Ryndan breathed, guilt flooding him as he realised he hadn't even given the dying man any thought since waking. "Did he-"

"I'm afraid so," she offered a small smile of sorrow. "It seemed to be peaceful, I think."

"Indeed, I have known him for a few years. He grew up in Stormwind."

"Err, is that right?" Ryndan took a moment to study her. She seemed not only confused but clueless at the mention of the city and its relevance to the conversation. Was she even aware of what she described? He had stayed in earshot long enough to listen to her description, curious himself as to what she would say with regards to her history. It hadn't taken Ryndan long to piece two and two together.

"Apologies, just something he told me once. Carry on." He decided to send a Prayer of Mourning to The Light for a safe passage for Ares in the afterlife later on.

"Alright. Well, I spent a long time with him before he passed, and I cleaned him up using some water nearby." Ryndan was pleasantly surprised, glad that in death he had been resided over kindly. Briefly he recalled Ares' comment of her as an angel. Perhaps in those final moments of his, she indeed seemed heavenly to him by allowing him the peace to pass without much pain. Grief struck its claws at his heart, but with an innate strength he could barely muster, he tried to push it away.

"That was kind of you, you have my thanks and also for relaxing him with your recollections."

"Oh, I don't think they were recollections; Luciya- that woman with me, that is- spoke about it before we had come down." Those pieces he thought he'd slotted together came undone in Ryndan's head, but even so, something didn't feel right. "Anyway, after a really long time you didn't come back, I decided to seek you out. Ares wasn't going to wake up again and I thought you'd run into trouble. And so I found you. In…trouble," she trailed off, looking more uncomfortable than he had ever seen anyone- and he had been present for some of his soldiers' full body medical examinations before.

"Yes, I had managed to get to the lowest level to retrieve the- the artefact! Where is it now?" He searched the tent frantically but in vain, if it had been in here with him, he would have seen it during his three day sojourn in the tent by now.

"Hey, hey, easy there Captain, it's in my tent. I didn't know what you wanted to do with it and no one questioned me on it as they were too busy trying to pry you off of my back- you were in a really bad shape by the time we came back here." She had partially stood now, leaning towards him with hands outreached like one would calm a panicked animal. _This girl managed to carry me in my full armour- and the artefact- all the way from the catacombs?_ Ryndan wondered in disbelief. _Surely not?_

" _How?_ "

She relaxed a little, settling into her chair. "Well, Perk Number Four of being a Death Knight, I've decided- inhuman strength," she shrugged as if it was nothing. There was indeed nothing _to_ her- standing as she had not moments ago, it wasn't hard to see by the way her shirt moved that she had indeed lost weight- weight that she couldn't afford to lose in the first place. This twig-thin elven girl had successfully carried a fully grown elven man in complete armour without snapping in two. His mind found it very hard to envision, never mind accept, not when her collar bone was jutting painfully out from under her shirt.

"Right," he said, falling back onto his plumped up pillows. Gathering his thoughts, he formed a plan. "If you'd be so kind, pass it on to Lord Irulon Trueblade, by request of Ares the Oathbound. With your compliance, his dying wish will be fulfilled."

"No, no, no, no." She waved her hands in defiance. "That is not for me to do- no, you do it, please. I can't carry out that wish- you do it. You got it, you finish it." She was actually starting to become flustered. If there was at least one advantage to having four sisters, he knew how to handle a panicking girl- just not a death knight one.

"Cersae, _Cersae._ Girl, hold," her eyes wide -with fear? - he took her hands, visibly flinching at the temperature of them. "Calm yourself, it is well. I ask you to complete this for me. Without you neither the artefact nor myself would have made it out of there. I had been suffering with a cold up to that point, refusing to rest while shouldering responsibility for my Crusaders- upon being asked to retrieve Ares we moved straight away, unsure as to his health. I pushed myself and you picked me back up and for that I thank you." She just looked at him, fearful and wide-eyed. Her own pale irises shifted as they bore into his, silently begging that this task be shifted from her burden. He was caught between ensorcellment and worry as he stared back.

Her freezing hands were shaking in his large ones, the icy cold penetrating the bandages wrapped around them. What had happened that was so bad? "No- you don't understand what I did- _you don't remember_ ," she whispered

That's when realisation struck hard- this is what she felt like all the time, knowing _something_ had happened but not knowing what, one's memory refusing to cooperate and divulge the information sought. Ryndan was missing perhaps one hour of memory or so and was already frustrated; she was missing _three years_. Suddenly he saw the weight of stress and worry on her shoulders. People accused her of the worst kind of doings imaginable, shunned her for them- and she didn't even know she had performed them. She could lie to him about what occurred and he would have no choice but to take her word for it, not knowing otherwise but always possessing a small glimmer of doubt as to whether it was true or not. Yet she, without question she accepted that yes, she probably had done these unspeakable horrors and that she was automatically an evil person.

What kind of world did they live in where they ignored the unspoken cries of help from such pitied people? His heart soared with pain at his epiphany of her mindset, unable to truly imagine what personal torment she was in. He needed to give her something to hold on to, something to guide her, _anything_ to help this poor woman in front of him.

"You can do this. Think of it as atonement for your actions that night," despite not knowing what had occurred, he watched as his small ruse worked- apparently some kind of repentance offered helped calm her. Internally grateful, he watched as she sat quietly, the words sinking in.

"Do you really think it will help me work towards forgiveness?" she whispered, her hands gripping tightly around his palms. Squeezing them back in encouragement, he replied, "Yes, I believe it will."

She left soon after, leaving some of his questions unanswered. Whatever it was that she did to save him was probably terrible, but the greater surprise was how much she remorsed over it. There was something so different about her compared to the other Death Knights he had dealt with. All-in-all they performed their duties and moved on. Even slaying the enemy- which he had no doubt she did- she was anguished after for doing it. He understood now that she was more aware of her actions, or perhaps even less, than her Turned counterparts, and had morals to contend with. But he just couldn't understand why she didn't stop killing, opening her up to this regret all over again.

Captain Ryndan Firesworn spent the rest of the afternoon in quiet contemplation of the death knight girl, starting to see for the first true time that small glimmer of humanity that Koltira Deathweaver once proclaimed she possessed. The Knight-Lieutenant had spat the words as if it were a disease or curse to have- watching Cersae do battle with herself as well as everyone around her, Ryndan thought that perhaps yes, being a death knight with humane scruples was probably a torment worse than anything Ryndan could imagine. Physical torture had his limits, this he knew, but mental torment could go on for as long as the person was awake. And even then sleep was no escape.

He didn't envy the young girl, so early marred in her soul, watching it being torn apart with each raise of the sword as if she couldn't control it. He saw in his mind's eye as her eyes flamed blue, a twisted smile over her face as she calculated how to chop the defeated Vrykul up. It was almost like a different person had taken her over. A thought occurred to him in a moment of genius. The next time his carer came to check up on him, he asked a request.

"Yazmina, might I ask you a small favour once more? May I ask you to send one Terowin Darksworn to see me, please?"

* * *

_Twenty one days after landing in Northrend- late afternoon._

"Father Favian!" The man in question turned, his grey cowl over his old head as normal and plain outer robe guarding him from the wind.

"Cersae, child, how are you?" He smiled, making me feel a little better about everything that happened today, or the past few days, really.

"Good as can be, I guess. Yourself?" I bounced to his side, falling in step as he walked towards the row of tents behind the inn.

"I am well, thank you child." I doubted it; even I could see he was grey with exhaustion or illness. I didn't push him, he's a grown man so can take care of himself. Most likely. Maybe I'll just ask anyway.

"Do you need to see a healer? You look worse than me," I joked.

"No, no- I am fine, just a little tired," he said with a small smile. The Cleric fell into a companionable silence, slowly shuffling up the hill.

"Have you seen Luciya recently? I haven't seen her since- well…the other night." This was true, neither she nor Bart had appeared at the campfires the last couple of nights, Terowin occasionally swinging by but leaving after dropping one or two unnecessary sarcastic comments about being alone. I hadn't practiced sparring with him since returning. I didn't really want to pick up another weapon if I could avoid it- which I was going to do, I resolved.

"I have, she is not well, I believe. She had confined herself to her room to recover." Being a permanent member of the Port, Luciya, like many others had assigned bunks in the dormitories beyond the bathhouses. I hadn't been in the small building, huddled against a fjord wall, but she said it was comfortable enough. "Bartheleus is taking care of her from what he told me- ah, speak of the man!" I watched as the purple-skinned man smoothly walked our way, stopping in front of us.

"Father, Cersae." The tall night elf loomed over us both, dressed finely as one can in a harbour, stoic faced and stern.

"Hey, Bart. Is Luciya well? I wanted to see her." Bart turned and actually scrutinised me, his eyes drinking me in in some cold fashion.

"She is well, Cersae, just exhausted. Her foolish escapades proved a little more taxing on her than she calculated for."

"Oh, I'm glad she's alright. When can I see her?"

"I do not know. It is up to her when to allow others." His arms folded in unspoken defence of the woman. He really needed to be more careful about hiding his feelings for her or she might actually find out one of these days.

"Right, well- can I ask you to give her something for me?"

"Depends on what it is," he said tersely. I did a double-take. Had I offended him as well without knowing? How many people a day did I manage to piss off without opening my mouth? I understood that maybe he didn't approve of Luciya going, but she was a grown woman, it wasn't _my_ fault she went along.

"It's the engineering manual that she wanted- the reason that we snuck into there in the first place," I stated, not without raising my voice a little. His long eyebrows rose in surprise- yeah, that's right; I actually succeeded in our suicide mission.

"I see. Yes, I will pass that on to her, if you would give it to me."

And so we three walked to the tents. I dipped inside mine first, the bed still made and unused since day one. Occasionally I had lay on top of it but boredom and unease normally took me over forcing me to move. Reaching underneath my cot I pulled the book from my only sack. I heard the two men muttering between them on the other side of my canvas flap, unaware that my hearing was slightly better than theirs.

"She's terrified, Father. I'm sure if you could speak with her and calm her she will listen-"

"There is little I can do to help her face her fears. You and I both know that girl in there; she is not as deadly as Luciya is making out, surely. Not that misunderstood child."

"You haven't seen the expression in her eyes, with all due respect, Cleric. I have known Luciya for many years now and only once have I seen her this distraught. But never this terrified for her life-"

"Here's the book," I walked out, lumping the journal into Bart's fast-catching hands.

"Thank you, Cersae. Luciya will be happy to see this," he said, nodding his head from two feet above me.

"No problem, all in a day's work," I grinned. Not even acknowledging what I had said, he gave his goodbyes and Bart left our company, reducing our trio to a pair. I turned to my elderly companion.

"What was that about?"

"I think he is simply upset at Luciya putting herself in harm's way, do not take it to heart, my dear." Makes sense I suppose, given how protective of her he is.

"I think I understand. I mean, for a twenty-six year old she doesn't really think a lot of things through," I noted.

"Twenty-six? She told me she was twenty-four," Father Favian said, looking as puzzled as I.

"Huh. So she's lying about her age? Which is correct? Mine or yours?"

"Or both, perhaps?" he prompted.

"Would she lie to a member of the Argent Crusade?" I nodded to the small crest on his robe, indicating his association.

"Why wouldn't she? I am no different to her, Crusade or not."

"Hmm, I suppose. I don't know, I just thought that perhaps the Crusade was, oh, I don't know, too virtuous to allow lies and the like." This was true, my impression of the Argent Dawn/Crusade so far had been that they were a pious bunch, slightly superstitious of outside forces and perhaps not as equal as they wanted to think they were-so far I had only really seen Paladins with high positioning ranks, for instance. I told the Cleric as much when he inquired further.

"Is that so," he said, stroking his beard. "Thank you, Cersae, I'll investigate this further. Though I believe there is one exception to your thoughts in this very port- one Commander Ashwood." Ashwood? Who was that? Had I met him before? "She is a night elf, former footsoldier and high-ranking officer in the Alliance Ranks. As the Kaldorei do not embrace The Light, she is not a Paladin by our definition. More a warrior, if you will."

Oh, so Ashwood was a night elf _and_ a woman- was that the one with the stern face and cropped hair that I had seen Ryndan speak with on occasion? Speaking of the blood elf-

"Sir, do you know who Lord Ir-…er, Iralion, no that's not it. Irloin, no. Lurion? Ah, er-"

"Irulon Trueblade, perhaps?" he supplied, clearly too amused.

"Yes! That man, do you know who he is- is he in port? I need to- oh will you stop laughing!" for indeed the Cleric was chuckling heartily from beneath his slightly bushy white beard. With a youthful glint in his eyes, I couldn't help but grin as well.

"Forgive me child. I have never heard such exotic names for my compatriot before. Though I must say, you suit a smile, my dear, it is good to see you happy," he wiped away a solitary tear from his aged face. I beamed at him. I liked Father Favian; he was kind to me and very non-judgemental of people such as Luciya and Bart with their less-than-stellar backgrounds. Also he didn't mind putting up with my presence despite my death knight status. I appreciated his company and may even dare to call him friend. It felt nice.

"I have been tasked with giving him something; may I ask you to take me to him, please?"

"Certainly." Nodding, I dipped my head into my tent once again, retrieving the cloth covered item that I had tucked underneath my mattress in case of anyone prying. I hadn't unwrapped it; it was something special, I felt. When I had been alone with it for the first time since coming out of the Catacombs it had hummed in my hands. It was about three-quarters the length of by body and oddly shaped. If I had to guess, I'd say it was a weapon, but it was a strange one if it were. I was very uncomfortable holding it, if I was honest. It was just something that I wasn't supposed to handle in the first place, and so decided to not to look further. Coming back out of the tent, Favian regarded the incongruous package but said nothing. And so the Cleric and I walked back into the camp, locating the Lord of the Crusade situated in the middle of all of the hustle and bustle.

Gathering my wits, I left Father Favian's side prepared to finish Ares' task. Ryndan's words had cut deeper than I cared to show to him earlier, wondering if truly reconciliation for my damned self might be possible. If it was, I was going to spend the rest of my life working towards it. Starting with this.

"Lord Trueblade?" I spoke, gaining his attention. The overbearing man turned to me, fully dressed in formal armour and tabard, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes flickered to Father Favian behind before greeting me.

"Yes, death knight? What is it you require?" A little pompous perhaps, were people always just asking things of him, rather than doing? Oh well, time to change that.

"I-," I stopped.

I what? I got this three days ago and didn't hand it to you? I sat while your soldier died holding my hand? I left him there to rot?

"Cersae?" Nudged my Cleric friend from behind me. Feeling a source of courage coming from Favian's presence, I straightened my shoulders back, addressing Trueblade.

"I was asked to deliver this to your hands. By Ares." The large man's eyes grew wide and disbelieving, flashing between me, the bundle and Favian. I held it out to him, ready to be rid of it. It had started that weird humming since I exited the tent again and I didn't like it at all. Why wasn't he taking it?

"Where did you get this, girl? Do you know what you hold in your tainted hands?" he hissed. I nearly dropped the item in surprise at the hostility.

"No, _I don't_. I'm just finishing what Ares-" I started.

"Did you kill him before taking this? Deciding to take all of the glory yourself?!" He drew up taller, looming over me bearing into my face.

"N-no! I didn't! He was already dying and then-" A few people were watching us now, I think I could see a flash of red hair out of the corner of my eye.

"Lies! Why should I believe you-"

"That will be enough, Irulon," Father Favian stepped forward in my defence. Normally I might chafe at someone interfering but right now I was more than happy to tag him into this ring. To my surprise he drew down his cowl, allowing me to see his full head of greying hair and beard for the first time in our acquaintance. He truly looked quite striking for an old man, grandfatherly almost.

"Lord Fordring! You mustn't reveal yourself!" Trueblade exclaimed.

… _What?_ I gaped at Father Favian, waiting for him to dispute the Trueblade's misnomer. He didn't. The man I knew to be the virtuous Cleric Favian just stood there, looking more serious than Bart had earlier.

"It is enough, Irulon. The boy's death, and in fact, the deaths of all of the knights involved in the redemption of the blade could have been avoided. Their passing weighs heavily upon my soul, no one else's. Not this girl's."

Trueblade looked mortified, much to my mixed satisfaction and extreme puzzlement. What on earth was going on here? The overly dressed man beside me sobered up, grimacing at Favian.

"No, My Lord. You must not blame yourself for my plan to transport you and the blade separately. The path of freedom has always been beset with tragedy, sire. We could not risk losing you. The Crusade could not have survived such a blow." I looked around, many people were now watching our little drama, whispering and pointing at Favian. It couldn't be that he really was…? To my right I saw Ryndan, leaning heavily on a wooden crutch, bandages wrapped all around any exposed skin barring his bruised face. To my left I did indeed see Luciya looking paler than I remembered, Bart hovering closely behind her, eyes fixed on the two Crusaders in front of me.

The eldest of the two- Favian, or Fordring as he apparently was, grimaced harshly. "I am not worth more than any man or woman in the Crusade, Irulon. It should have been me that carried the blade to Northrend. The burden was mine and mine alone to bear." He sighed heavily, dropping his head in sorrow, his words weighing more than the still covered blade in my hands. After a moment of stunned silence, he straightened, regarding his comrade in front of him sombrely. "But you are right, Irulon. The price of our freedom will undoubtedly cost thousands more of their lives." He turned to me, face tense. I could see it now, this man, in all of his glory- The Highlord of the Argent Crusade. How could I have missed his grand presence, the dignified man that led so many people to war on these lands? It was there in his stance, his voice, his words, his eyes. Not even the plain raiment he was robed in could hide his unparalleled leadership. Gently he unwrapped the bound cloth in my hands, my eyes never straying from his hardened face.

And then he lifted the sword. My arms fell heavily, free from the burden I wasn't even aware I carried, aching with stress.

I watched on, like so many others as he faced the Vrykul Citadel, the Howling Fjords, and the rest of Northrend and raised his head up high.

"Do you hear me, Arthas?! The Argent Crusade is coming for you! Your kingdom shall crumble beneath the weight of justice! _BY THE LIGHT_!"

"By The Light!"

"By t' Light!

"Anar'alah!"

The crowds gathered around us cried out and cheered, calling out for the downfall of the Lich King and his enemies. People hugged, raised tools and weapons, daring Arthas to show his face and take them on now. Ryndan looked proud and awed, Lorik was stunned and surprised. Terowin was not to be seen, and yet for all of my time to come yet, the most memorable thing I recall about that day was Luciya, crying out to Bart in the middle of the excitement.

"Did I actually describe my sex life to the _The Highlord of the Argent Crusade?!"_

* * *


	19. Miserable Exploitation

_Twenty-five days after landing in Northrend._

"We'll be sorry to see you leave, Commander," Keller said, a smile broadening on his features for the first time since Ryndan had met the man. He couldn't blame him. "You and your soldiers have helped a great deal around the place, for that we are grateful."

"It is us who are to thank you and your men for taking such care of us, Vice-Admiral. I realise supporting so many was not the easiest thing to do at such notice but as expected, the Valiance Expedition has more than surpassed themselves." Beaming like a proud father might, Keller nodded and shook hands with Commander Ashwood, conveying the last goodbyes and thanks from the Argent Crusade.

Already mounted on her horse, Ryndan's superior clicked her heels and set forth in front of the troops. Starting at a steady pace, half of the Argent Crusade contingent left Port Valgarde.

"They should be safe now, with their working Harpoon Launcher," Ryndan commented to Ashwood, rhythmically rocking in the cart he was seated in.

"Indeed, the mission to disable the overhead harpoons was a complete success, judging by the report from Lieutenant Icehammer," she replied, leading the walking column up the large incline overlooking Valgarde bay. Now officially off active duty until he had fully recovered, Ryndan rode in the front most cart, his leg and pelvis still too bruised to comfortably ride the borrowed horses to Westguard. Even taking the extra caution for an easier journey, Ryndan still suffered discomfort in his vehicle.

"I feel better, knowing we are leaving them safer. I was vastly concerned by their sitting duck position when we first arrived," Ashwood said. Ryndan recalled her voicing her concerns, claiming it was male pride keeping everyone there in danger. Perhaps so, but regardless things seemed to have hammered themselves out. "You did well to retrieve the manual, Firesworn," she nodded to him.

Ryndan frowned. The Commander had ordered him to take the praise for receiving the manual, trying to draw attention away from why a death knight under their control was out wondering loose at night on her own in the first place. He didn't like it, but he saw the merit in keeping Cersae's involvement a secret. Indeed, if they could not keep a death knight under their jurisdiction properly, how would that reflect on the Crusade as a whole? And yet, without her, Ryndan would be dead by now. She had rescued him for the second time, even if he didn't remember.

Said Death Knight walked somewhere towards the back of the column. They were the second group to leave for Westguard, bringing the rest of the last to recover from the Forsaken attacks- both the stranded and the rescue team. Whatever toxin was dropped onto the boats each day had left the crews beyond sick, inducing scurvy and other digestive problems, mainly being unable to eat for vomiting so much. The people who had gone on the rescue mission were easy to spot- their cheeks were gaunt and hollow, an extraordinary amount of weight lost. It had taken Yazmina, Lorik and McGreave's healing teams to bring the men and women about to even a modicum of health when they had returned weak and near death. Unfortunately two had passed away- Cadet Fusebolt and Private Dawnrunner, both fine women who left too soon.

Highlord Fordring had resided over their cremations, praising their bravery and commending them as people. After his revelation five days ago, he said it was the least he could do for his fellow Crusaders, writing to make sure their families would be taken care of, assuring them that they would avenge their deaths against Arthas. He spoke more of riding against the Lich King, claiming no one shall be forgotten in the fight against the Scourge, and that victory was in their grasp. Ryndan was moved by his words, but felt a little hollow when he realised that the like of Cersae and Terowin would probably not be remembered favourably in history if they were victorious.

Spurred on by time and now the successful recovery of The Ashbringer completed, Fording had left with Trueblade and Lieutenant-Commander McGreaves two days prior with some of the healthier troops en route for Dragonblight. They left to clear the road of any obstacles or ambushers, allowing safe passage now for the less-fit. Left with orders to stay at Westguard Keep, Commander Ashwood's troops carried the bulk of supplies and also were escorted by a few others also travelling to the north not a part of the Crusade.

Shifting on his hard seat, Ryndan winced as pain shot up through his hip again. His crude crutch lay over his lap, the only other people as his company being Sergeant Edrikson and Private Danila. Edrikson made for pleasant company but the young draenei was silent and nervous in front of two higher-ranking officers no doubt. As stern as she was, Ryndan knew that Commander Ashwood liked to converse on a professional level with all of her soldiers, wanting to know each by face and name. He had once asked her about it, and she had responded that if she needs to say words over their graves, then the least she can do is know who she's saying goodbye and thank you to.

Ryndan imagined that all of her time in the Gulch and partaking in other battles left her in a position to judge the value of life more than others- it's possibly what made her such a fair Commander in the Dawn, despite not being a paladin or priest. He admired her greatly, much like Lieutenant-Commander McGreaves, whom he had known for his entire Argent career.

Nearing the peak of their climb, Ryndan turned to view the bay. It was beautiful from on high, the port to the far right behind them and the ghastly Vrykul castle casting its shadow far to the front of them. Up close it seemed truly amazing, despite the people that resided in and around it. Such a stunning contrast to the delicate allure that his homeland held. As a whole, the nature here seemed broader and stronger, no doubt necessary for living in harsh winter environments and weathers, however, it didn't detract from its overall serenity.

The forest below separated man from giant, a beautiful sea of dark green settled next to the large body of sparkling water, so clear the bottom was visible where the sunlight did not shine too bright upon it. Reaching the top, they drew level with the ominous village across the inlet; he squinted to view the bright red canvases. The village stretched on for a bit more than he liked, making him even more grateful for the disruption of their aerial bombardments. Thanks to a small group of adventurers arriving on the last shipload, with Zorek's guidance and Luciya's interpretation of the manual, those harpoons were destroyed yesterday.

And then his eyes fell upon the Howling Fjords proper for the first time. Stuck in the Valgarde basin for a month had confined him to the same view every day, unknowing of what truly lay awaiting above him.

Green land, tall trees and sparkling lakes dominated the scenery in every direction. Snowcapped mountains were seen in the very far distance, faded and cloudy but beautiful to behold. Their road was dirt-paved and extremely bumpy but Ryndan forgave the rough ride for the idyllic countryside he had the pleasure of travelling through. It was almost enough to forget that they were here for war, the Captain foolishly hoping to travel these lands on his own one day, admiring all that the continent could offer in its untainted and free form. Taking a deep breath of crisp air, he let it out in a cloud of steam, welcoming the wintery nip to his elongated ears.

Perhaps if he lived through this campaign then yes, he would very much like to witness Northrend anew, not plagued anymore by the Scourge or their King.

* * *

"Hey, almighty Capitan Ryndan Firesworn of the Argent Crusade." Looking to his right, said Capitan came face to face with a familiar red-headed engineer. Stiff from his tense posture, he had offered to take a horse of his own partway through the journey when one of the strand rescuers nearly collapsed off of his steed. That man now rested in the cart Ryndan occupied a few hours ago. He was in a great deal of discomfort, but bared it, knowing he would rest later that night.

"Greetings, Ms. Green."

"Oh, just Luci, please," she threw him a half-hearted smile, her face drawn and tired looking. Claiming that she had enough of Valgarde, Luciya and her friend Bartheleus accompanied the Crusaders in their pilgrimage, hoping she could take up maintenance work in Westguard, he later found out.

"Are you well, Miss Luciya?"

"Peachy, thanks," she gave a hollow laugh indicating quite to the contrary. Ryndan would guess that the incident in the Catacombs shook her more than she cared to admit. Up close, this was the first time he had really seen her properly since _that_ night. Bags under her eyes indicated more than just a lack of sleep. She suffered nightmares.

"I understand," he offered. Many of his soldiers often needed post-battle counselling, even if they didn't know it. After going through it several times himself, he was old-hat now at providing the counsel- and also recognising when it was needed - like now.

"You do? Because I don't. Forgive me for saying but that was just ridiculous what I saw down there. One moment she's all normal- for her anyway - and the next she's got these bright blue eyes and effortlessly slaying something more than twice her size! That is not _natural!"_ she forced her voice to drop to a hysterical whisper, it in danger of rising in her small panic. Searching around, he caught the eye of her kaldorei friend and indicated to him. Eyes flickering back between Luciya and Ryndan, the night elf nodded in severe understanding. Ryndan reached over, taking her reins and pulled her to the side, slowing their pace to allow for privacy away from the small column.

"What you witnessed was her true Death Knight abilities. I have only witnessed it once myself before a few nights ago. It is shocking, I do know this." Wide eyed and chest heaving, he wasn't sure if Luciya listened to his words as he spoke, her eyes seeing something else than him caught in the midst of her own frightening torment. His only effort now would be to placate her.

"As far as I can understand it, she has little control over this. She is an incomplete knight, unfinished in her training and not fully embraced in her utmost potential and so susceptible to outbursts like that." This much Koltira Deathweaver had told him not a few weeks ago- though that seemed almost like a lifetime to him now. "Also, she suffers some sort of curse, a torment if you will. Seemingly, Death Knights have to kill or they are driven mad by their own thirst for blood," he explained harrowingly.

"The Endless Hunger," she whispered.

"You know of it?" he asked, surprised. He only knew it from the conversation he had had with Darksworn in the recovery tent a few days ago. He had divulged the exact nature of what drove Death Knights to kill beyond mere orders. It was some of the newer, more personal information they discovered about the Knights as individuals, rather than as a group. Ryndan felt nauseas when Darksworn had described the inner and physical pain experienced by lack of murdering. Apparently, as punishment if a knight stepped out of line, they were chained and starved of the chance at death by their hands, driving them insane from the withdrawal. The Lich King was a far crueller man than Ryndan could give him credit for- if indeed 'man' was the term still appropriate to describe him. It was what Ryndan had effectively done to Cersae by forcing her from the front lines- a decision he was still sure was the right one with her unpredictable battle skills, however.

"Yes, Terowin described it one night to Cersae. It sounded so dreadful. I had already noticed her shaking hands and trembling, but said nothing of it. I still needed her." Good, she was speaking more; being responsive was the first sign to dealing with her stress. "I should have though, perhaps she could have gotten help to deal with it and then I wouldn't have had to see her do that-"

"Somehow, I think the only way to stave it away is indeed to slaughter. There would be little we could do to erase her torture, I fear." He lied to himself, using this as an excuse for ignoring her troubles and worries. Ryndan felt poor, if he had to admit it, at straining what could be described as their relationship to the point where she could not approach him like a superior before the Catacombs. His pride and anger had gotten in the way. Perhaps if she was on the frontlines again, or undergoing training at least then she may have been able to deal with her Hunger…but he had refused to do nothing with her, cutting her off from everything violent. It was for her own good, he had thought, as well as everyone's around her. And it resulted in yet another brutal death and potentially gruesome post-mortem mutilation, witnessed by the scarred woman next to him.

"What a horrible existence…" she trailed off into a thoughtful stupor, Ryndan agreed, joining her, wondering what the girl's head must be like with such an overwhelming feeling ordering her to kill again and again on top of her moral strife. After their conversation in the recovery tent, Ryndan felt an overwhelming for pity- everything she did, if or when she remembered it, resulted in a drowning guilt at having no say in the matter. Her free will and choice had been stripped from her brutally. The woman beside him didn't understand this, probably not privy to such information beyond the Endless Hunger. Was she aware that Cersae fought for forgiveness and retribution on herself? Looking at her haunted face behind her carrot hair, he believed not, or perhaps she would feel sorrow for her friend, rather than fear like he did.

He remembered walking down the winding tunnel and seeing Luciya, quaking visibly from shock and fright at watching Cersae murder the giant in a horrific manner. It must have been the first time she had witnessed any kind of true cold bloodshed of any kind and he tried to shield her as best he could upon reaching her- she had clung on to him nearing collapse.

"I cannot fathom it personally, and I do not envy her- or any of them for it. However, we should be glad that she turned on a Vrykul rather than a friend." Something he thanked The Light for- he just wasn't sure how far she would have gone, deprived long enough of killing. But does that mean he would have to condone her murdering? Or would it be considered 'fine' if on an enemy figure? Ryndan didn't have an answer for that despite how sympathetic he felt to her situation. Does being out of control of her actions dismiss them automatically when wrong? Or praise them if used as a boon, even if unintentional?

"Do you think she can be cured?" Luciya spoke, bringing him out of his reverie.

"'Cured'? I do not know if that is the right word. 'Freed', perhaps, may suit better. But even then, I do not know. I believe that is why she seeks her friend, to ask his aid, somehow." Walden had confided that she was only here to search for this infamous man from her previous life, mentioning soon after that she wanted this man to free her from her curse. What he could do, he was unsure. Ryndan hoped to have more answers after hearing back from his contact in Dalaran or even from the reunion of the couple itself.

"Did you know this Edmund of hers?" she asked tentatively.

"Not personally, no, but I have a heard a fair bit about him. Why do you ask?"

She stayed silent a moment, contemplating her words. "Do you know if she loves him?" Her light brown eyes were wide and serious awaiting his answer. He decided to reply diplomatically.

"I- Well, it is not for me to say." Even though the answer was 'yes', at Walden's words, it was rude to discuss others' affairs and private relationships, he felt. Besides, even if she did at one point love this man, who knew what she felt now, if anything?

"Fair enough. You see, I slept with him- several times in fact, when he was here over a year ago-" Ryndan tried not to envision the images conjured by such a statement, " and every time, even though he was a gentle lover, there was a depression about him." What started out as too much information dissolved into something a bit more sympathetic. "He was very tender in his ministrations-"she actually blushed a little, it was charming, he thought. "But it was like there was something missing from him. Or someone."

"Is this something you should be telling me? I prefer not to discuss another man's personal business or feelings-"

"Oh, it's fine, I won't say much more. Just that I told Cers that I knew where he was. But I don't actually know specifically- I just know of him."

"You lied to her?"

"Yeah, sort of. You see, he called out for her in his sleep afterwards, that's how I recognised her name. When he came here, he only introduced himself as 'Ed', not 'Edmund' like Cers calls him. It took me a while to place the name she was looking for to the face I knew. I really needed that manual and…she really wanted to hear about her Ed, so I manipulated my information a little." Ryndan didn't need to tell her that her actions were wrong, there was shame radiating off of her at the admission.

"Sometimes it was, well… anguished, I think is the word, and other times it was soft and sad. He cried once too. I didn't know what to do, who this woman was, where she was. It wasn't like normal with him as a paying customer and me the pleasure-giver." Ryndan blanched at the crude terms but said no more, not wanting to interrupt her flow. " No, it was two people in need of human comfort during those cold nights. I presumed she was dead judging by the grieving he seemed to be going through. I guess she's not far off death, really. I've been with men who have used me as a replacement for a deceased lover to help ease their grief before, but this was a whole different level. He was so… _so sad_ , that I've never really forgotten him, you see. I really think that he loves her, truly."

And look at her now, what would he say if they were reunited? Would he be overjoyed? Horrified? Would this Edmund be kind enough or want her enough to look past her current state? He was both curious and hesitant by the idea of witnessing such a reunion. Ryndan had not been in love and could not fathom to what depths the heart may forgive to. He felt a sudden pang of pity for the girl riding further down the line. And for the woman beside him.

The normally energetic Luciya looked despondent. Having only really spoken with her once, but been in her presence twice previously, he understood her to be a kind person, even if a prostitute. She spoke so heavy-heartedly now that Ryndan got the impression that perhaps she regretted sharing a bed with this Edmund now that she knew Cersae, as well as lying to her. He found it slightly ironic, somehow, before berating himself for thinking lowly of the woman just because of her profession.

"I see, and you wish to tell her this?" he asked, asking silent forgiveness for his disgraceful thoughts. She was only trying to help, after all. He should not judge.

"No, not exactly." She tutted in indignation. "Well, I do and I don't. He mentioned where he was aimed for but I thought it was the ravings of a man gone mad, to be honest with you. And that's not all…" She fell quiet, her scarred face downcast. There was an inner turmoil going on with her that Ryndan empathised with. She liked Cersae -that much was clear, despite what she had witnessed that night. He had seen them at night from afar, seated around the campfire by the piers in their oddball group, joking and talking for several days running. He would be lying if he said it hadn't warmed his heart to see her interact with others, but he also realised that this woman on his right had now seen the flipside to the Death Knight that was _The Hacker._ And she was scared of her.

"What else is there?" he gently prompted, shifting on his saddle a moment.

She sighed heavily, grimacing causing her violent burn to scrunch painfully. "Edmund, well, Ed as he called himself…he would cry out for another woman as well."

"Oh, I see. Perhaps a sister, or a friend?" Even suggesting it Ryndan knew that that was a long shot.

"I doubt it, there seemed to be more pain in the cries of her name than Cersae's, if you ask me."

"May I ask of the name?"

"Earalith. It was Earalith," she said with a great melancholy. She did, she felt really bad for her friend, he concluded. If it came down to it, he did too knowing this information.

"Earalith." The name didn't exactly roll off of his accented tongue; it felt like he tripped on it a little. "An unusual name, not elven at least anyway," he concluded.

"No, probably human, the name sounds Common though there's no way of knowing without meeting the woman herself. I just don't know what to tell Cers, she's desperate to find Ed because he's out here, somewhere on this damned continent looking for her with her doing the exact same." She looked around and afar at the snow-covered scenery. He had seen a large-to-scale map of Northrend and indeed if this was just the Fjords, he found it hard to comprehend the true size of such a land. Edmund could be anywhere from the next stop at Westguarde to lying dead in a cave somewhere, never to be found. In three years since she was turned, he could have travelled anywhere and back again. Was she running a fool's errand in her search? Or did her hope and faith at his being alive make it just so, ultimately to make them reunited?

Ryndan found himself hoping that for her sake, she found him sooner rather than later, if at all.


	20. A Woman's Back

They paused for camp in the early evening, the light from the setting sun enough to allow them freedom to set up without lighting torches yet. Even though Ryndan was off of active duty he tried to chip in where possible when setting up camp. Stiffer than he'd like from the horse ride, moving about unpacking here and there tended to aggravate his aches. Ordered to sit down, he settled on a spare crate, tending one of many dotted campfires in their makeshift camp. Dinner was a sparse affair of dried meats and cheese. The innkeepers had granted them a few loaves of freshly baked bread from the morning and Ryndan could still feel a small amount warmth emanating from his slices, their heavenly aroma pleasing his senses. The sun set an hour ago, seated around their basic campfire, he and a few other Crusaders spoke with some of their unrelated travelling companions- such as the one giving graphic accounts of his _conquests._

"Now, the most beautiful part of a woman is her back-"

"Her _back?_ Not her face or…or her front?!" cried Corporal Jason, holding two cupped hands in front of his chest. Ryndan chuckled at his enthusiasm, reminded of his less than respectful description of Luciya.

"Ah, yes, while they are also something to behold, there is nothing quite like the curve of her spine in the full throes of pleasure," the storyteller smirked. A warrior named Marcus; he was travelling along en route to Dalaran fresh off of the most recent ship in Valgarde, but was currently describing some of his exploits to some of the younger recruits much to their delight. Several young men sat around at his feet, intently listening as they ate, Ryndan just nearby, quietly finishing his meal. He knew he should halt the man, but it did him good to see the soldiers happy about something these days…even if it was lewd. And Light forgive him, he was curious to hear more.

"You see, lads, women are a mystery, their luscious bodies hidden beneath layers of fine clothes. If you are so lucky as to find yourself pleasing a woman bare, appreciate everything you see before your eyes and hear with your ears, for they are marvellous creatures." Ryndan laughed to himself at the gaping stares of the boys as they watched Marcus trace an outline of a woman's silhouette, his hands gently caressing each imagined curve.

"Head thrown back, mouth open, breasts bouncin'- _gorgeous_ ," he grinned. "Even more beautiful with hair loose and wild, though allow me to tell you about this one time I had a mage in my arms-"

"I think that will be quite enough, thank you, Jonathan." Several bodies up and scarpered at the sound of Commander Ashwood's voice from behind the grizzled warrior. Marcus stilled comically before recomposing and twisting around, giving her no doubt his most charming smile.

"Nhuada! Is that _you?_ Long time no see! You have not changed a bit! How _are_ you doing?" Ryndan coughed into his hand as his superior crossed her arms and raised a long purple brow.

"Well enough, Marcus. I will kindly appreciate it if you do not corrupt my troops," she warned, though Ryndan was sure that he could hear a note of amusement in her voice. Does she perhaps know this Marcus character? If so- in _what_ manner?

" _Corrupt?!_ Corrupt indeed," he scoffed. "I am simply telling the boys how to appreciate a woman's form," he waved his hands up and down towards her own long body, Ryndan barely containing his laughter at her unwavering stare. "It is not wrong to lecture them on how to respect the female figure-"

"Yes, thank you Marcus. I am well aware of how you can appreciate a woman's body, now kindly stop getting my men _excited._ Firesworn, stop that inane giggling and walk with me. _"_ She gave Marcus one last depreciating look before turning and walking by several other campfires. Scrambling to get to his feet, Ryndan grabbed his crutch and accepted a rough hand from Marcus.

"She's still quite some woman, I see. Had no idea she was with the Dawn now!" he smiled broadly, a mischievous glee reflecting in his eyes by the firelight. "As fierce as ever!"

"Oh she's fierce alright, I wouldn't cross her," Ryndan commented, sorting his twisted clothes with one hand.

"Still as beautiful as ever as well," Marcus sighed, looking to her from afar. Realising he wasn't following yet, Ashwood called for her lesser officer to hurry his backside along causing said officer to start hobbling along after her, bidding Marcus a good night. He limped past a few groups, laughing and eating merrily, most still overjoyed to be reunited with their lost friends from the attack on the north-eastern strand.

Catching up to Ashwood, they walked towards the edge of their camp, a few men and women posted periodically around keeping guard.

"Apologies for that small display, Firesworn. That man is impossible to reason with sometimes." She sighed, clearly irritated- much to Ryndan's surprise. The Commander was a hard woman to shake up in his experience.

"I understand, Commander Ashwood, and I apologise for my part in it. I didn't interrupt him for it did me good to see our boys light-hearted about something," he hobbled along her, noting she had slowed her long legs to allow him to keep pace with ease.

"Is that the reason you're giving me?" Ryndan grinned at her sidelong look, choosing not to answer. "That man is a rakehell and the sooner he is out of my travelling pack the better, if you ask me," she stated.

"Yes, Commander. If I catch him corrupting the men again, I will kindly ask him to do it in lesser detail next time," he replied, trying out his own charming smile at his superior, happily resulting in a deep laugh from the woman. Barriers and formalities tended to drop a fraction during downtime, simply reminding each other that they were all in this together and all were mortal to the same level, no matter the rank. It was small moments like these that Ryndan favoured remembering in the depths of night when sleep would evade him, not blood-stained or death-infested memories. Finaly reaching their intended destination, business was assumed once more.

"If you'll take point tonight for four hours, then I will take over until dawn. The other shifts have been covered and the usual relay in place. I need a commanding officer on duty I'm afraid and I cannot stay up all night- I promise you will have your rest come Westguard." She did sound sympathetic, and Ryndan understood, not wanting to leave some of the younger officers alone on watch.

"Quite alright, I'm sure I can stand here for a few hours- it's not that hard, Commander," he reassured her. With thanks and promises of a crate to sit on, Ryndan soon found himself perched a few metres away from the outermost tents with a grateful cup of hot water and tea. Armed with one of his own one-handed swords and his crutch, the blood elf settled into his watch.

A long time passed, the elf lost to his own thoughts, listening to the hustle and bustle dying down behind him as people settled into their sleep. His thicker travelling cloak was tight around him, sealing in the little warmth his own body could provide. Having invested in such a cloak some time ago, it did him a lot of good also recommending that his soldiers do the same as their ornate battle-cloaks, while easily identifiable in a fight, didn't make good for keeping one warm given their frivolous material.

Glancing to the stars above, he found that homesickness had ebbed his way into his subconscious. Without the duties of Captain-hood to keep him occupied, Ryndan found himself reflecting on his family a lot- especially after his near death experience. His two younger sisters were no doubt so grown now, having not seen them in months and helping their parents on the vineyard, making fine Eversong wine. His second oldest sister was now happily married to a businessman up at the main city and his eldest sister was climbing the ranks within the Blood Knights of Silvermoon. They had missed each other in the last two years when their leave from service didn't coincide. He missed her fiercely- not that he would admit that to her. A few letters here and there and news from home brought him up to date on her welfare and progress, and he found himself growing prouder of his siblings the older he grew.

Picking out several well-known constellations eased Ryndan back into the present, making him feel that he perhaps wasn't that far away from home, to see such a familiar night sky.

"Psst- _Dan!_ "

No, it wasn't. It _can't_ be. Glancing furtively around him, squinting into the trees ahead and seeing nothing, Ryndan shook his head as he tried to rid his mind of the familiar voice. That blow he suffered must have damaged him more than he liked.

"Dan! Over here!" Searching to his left, a ghoulish outline presented itself in the darkness, Ryndan already part way to drawing his sword and standing.

"Stay your weapon man, what harm can you do in your condition?" Walden mocked, edging closer. Glancing around, the Captain was relieved to see that no one had noticed. The next nearest sentry was a good twenty-five metres away, chatting with his own friend. Being towards the very back of the camp himself, there was hardly any firelight to give Walden's presence away, not that Ryndan's nerves settled any further with this knowledge.

"Are you _mad_? What on earth are you doing here? You'll be skinned alive if any of the troops see you," Ryndan whispered urgently, still casting looks around. It was a sign to the severity of his purpose here that Walden did not make a silly comment at Ryndan's remark, plunging straight into business.

"I've been tailing you since Valgarde- I figured you'd be leaving soon after the stranded were rescued so I've been camping above you, awaiting you to depart. What happened to you?"

"I got on the wrong end of a fight, clearly."

"Looks it, though I imagine this is you looking prettier after a few days healing. I take it you won?" Walden's yellow eyes searched him, obviously having no trouble viewing him in this inky darkness.

"In a manner of speaking- I'm alive, am I not?" he retorted, angry that this man risked himself. "Why are you here, Walden? You should go before you're caught." They still conversed in low tones, though Ryndan found it hard to keep his voice level, several cusses and swears on the tip of his tongue.

"Look, I know you said no last time, but I'm on my way to New Agamand in the south and I need Cersae with me. She is the only one I can trust to interpret the Alchemy the apothecaries are creating. I'm begging you to reconsider" he pleaded. It was true; Ryndan had point blank refused to allow him custody of someone under his care.

"My answer remains unchanged, Walden. I do not hand over my troops this way and that at others' leisure." He was annoyed that Walden was bringing this subject back up, ignoring his firm answer and trying to get around him again.

"I figured you'd say no again, so that's why I've brought copies of their notes- at great peril, I may add- for you to hand to her. Let her look at them and tell you herself what they are working on." Said notes were brought forth from a large satchel, loose-leafed and scrawled.

"I will do no such thing. You told me that this is no threat to the Alliance or the Crusade, for what reason should I want to help you?"

"Look, Dan. I didn't want to alarm you at first, but even though they're creating a plague to wipe out the Scourge, they have also made it very clear that – _Goff Rothas!"_ Ryndan jumped as Walden drew his daggers.

"Don't stop on my account, _Undead_." Commander Ashwood materialised toward their group, a dangerous gleam in her eyes as she looked at the Baron. Fear struck through Ryndan at the situation unfolding before him. While the Dawn and by extension the Crusade was neutral, technically there were no hostilities with the Horde at this moment in time. However, given recent problems involving the Forsaken, tension was a little on the high side concerning those of the Undercity.

"Commander Ashwood, I can explain-"

"No need, Captain. I was listening." Her eyes didn't leave Walden's form, no doubt ready to cut him down as soon as he moved an inch away. She had her arms ready to draw her curved sabres if necessary, something he hoped could be avoided.

"Speak, Undead. What is so desperate that you risk your stinking unlife to visit us?" She demanded, Walden flashed his eyes between Ryndan and his superior, his elven friend nodding in encouragement and desperately pleading not to confront this woman. To his relief, the Forsaken sheathed his daggers, but his stance remained taught in case.

"A plague, night elf-" Ryndan grimaced at the disrespectful wording used against his commanding officer, silently begging him not to rile her further. "The Apothecaries of the Undercity are here and creating a toxin that will wipe out the Scourge. If you are aware of the experiments on the boats of the northeast coast-"

"Oh, I am _very_ familiar with them, _corpse_. I was on board one of those ships, watching helpless as my men withered before my eyes." Despite no one having moved, Ryndan felt the deadly contention in the air rise a notch.

"I apologise for that. I managed to contaminate their latest load before it could be dispatched onto you. Judging by the advancing results when they used it on an animal later, I was just in time- it may have killed you and your crew." Ryndan knew Walden sounded ashamed, even if he couldn't tell how genuine it was, but his superior would not see it that way. He wasn't allowed the time to appreciate Walden's efforts in sabotage.

"I suppose you are looking for thanks? Because rest assured, _Forsaken_ , you are getting none from me."

"Nor do I expect anything, elf." Mort sighed purposely. "Look, you both have someone I need to make sure that this plague isn't what I think it is."

"Which is what?" Ryndan asked.

"Not just a plague to wipe the Scourge out, but any life if need be. They have said in as many words that they aim to make it something that can devour all flesh- living, dead _or_ undead."

"And why should this concern us?" Ashwood demanded; though Ryndan could see the alarm in the situation should Walden's words prove true.

"Because if successful and they wipe out the Scourge, what's to stop them using it on the likes of you, on my old kind? My friends?" he waved gloved hand to Ryndan, trying to make his point across. "Once they have eliminated the Scourge, there is nothing to prevent them from turning on any Alliance dog that made their lives more hell than we are already suffering. I may not look too kindly upon the Alliance as a whole, but I have no reason to want to witness another genocide, not when I lived through one decades back." His voice was grim and harsh, memories of Stratholme no doubt surfacing. "Just because they are my only kin now, does not mean I agree with them," he affirmed, trying to strengthen his argument.

"I see. And what is it that only we possess? What is so precious that you risk your dried up skeleton to come here?" Ashwood threatened, not so subtly resting her elongated hands on her sabre hilts.

"Cersae. The death knight girl- she is a gifted alchemist from way back before her Turning. I am sure she is smart enough to interpret these blasted notes and even help me sabotage their stockpile if necessary."

"And the proof that she is an alchemist? How can I trust that you are not just trying to steal her away to use her knight abilities for Forsaken use?" Ryndan asked, jumping into the conversation on her defence.

"I have her old journal here. I told you before I left Light's Hope that I was returning to the Undercity. When I was there I picked up a few things of hers that she had left behind before she was abducted into service." Cautiously, as to not make the two soldiers jumpy, he withdrew an old, leather-bound tome.

"A diary is your proof? That could have been written by anyone!" Ryndan cried, dismissing his friend's evidence.

"It is hers, Dan. Show this to her and watch as her mind awakens with memories. Not only is her own alchemical research in here but a few passages of her daily life as well. If her memory has not fully recovered yet, this will help," he pleaded.

"That is beside the point, Walden, just give her the diary and be done with it. There is no reason to separate her from the Crusade-"

"Hold yourself, Captain Firesworn," Commander Ashwood intercepted, suddenly seeming less angry. "I am listening, Undead. If she can read this and admit this to be hers, I will allow her to go with you." Ryndan whirled around on his superior, temper nearly lost.

" _Commander!_ She is under our govern and so our responsibility, once she is out of our sight-"

"I will be able to sleep sounder, safe as to say, Captain. Calm yourself, you are letting your emotions control you."

"I disagree, with all due respect, Sir! Without her I would not be alive-" despite not wanting to have a debt owed to her, Ryndan found himself fighting on her behalf, knowing she wants to be here for a reason. It was the least he could do for saving his life once. It would be twice over paid if he was successful in keeping her here.

"Allow me to correct you, Firesworn." She drew up tall, an inch higher than himself. "Without her I would not have had to listen to you _scream_ and _cry_ in your nightmare-induced state about the horrors she committed in the very act of saving your life. You were kept sedated and under control with use of a highly rare dreamless sleep serum that holds merciful short term memory loss as a side effect, allowing you- and thus everyone taking care of you- peace. I will feel safer in the knowledge that that _monster_ is not anywhere near my Crusaders and is in a hovel somewhere lounging with the scum of the earth where she belongs. I will not risk my men's safety on a dangerous trigger switch of hers regardless of _whose_ life she has saved. _Is that clear_ , Captain?" she demanded crossly, each word enunciated like it was a threat on its own to defy her.

Ryndan was speechless however, unable to contradict his superior in light of this shock. He was sedated? _Screaming in his sleep?_ Raking memory after memory, Ryndan could not find the answers he sought to dispute her claims, ignoring his gut feeling that she was not lying.

"I will retrieve the girl and her affects. Await here, both of you." Turning on an armoured heel without waiting for an answer, Ryndan watched in disbelief as she walked back into the camp, unable to figure out what had just occurred.

"Dan? What happened? What did she mean by 'horrors committed saving your life'?"

Ryndan just shook his head, frowning, unable to give him the answer that they both wanted.

"I have no idea, Walden. I-I do not recall," he replied shakily. He remembered her in the recovery tent, shaken to the core at the idea of retelling whatever it was she had done in the ring. Ryndan had thought her to being shy, fearful he would judge her, perhaps, but he was convinced that he would not. In the end he never found out, no more information from her or his mind being divulged as to those particular events. He was beyond frustration.

"Has Cersae recalled anything?" Ryndan looked to the Undead warily.

"What?"

"Cersae- has she remembered anything?"

"Cersae? Err, I don't know, she hasn't said anything to me- wait. No _, wait_ -" Ryndan awakened a little, questions popping up in quick succession in his mind. "Walden, tell me something. Her body- was it always like that? Stick thin and unhealthy?

"Stick thin? No, she was perfectly healthy, hardy in fact before she was turned. Why? Has she changed?" the concern in his voice was not lost on the blood elf, but he pushed on.

"Never mind, I'm looking into the matter as it is." Though with her being taken away, that jeopardised any plan he had of making her healthy again if the reason behind her degrading was found. After speaking with Yazmina on the night that Trueblade had arrived in Valgarde, a quest of his was in motion to contact someone in Dalaran for answers. Speaking of cities; "That brings me to another point, Walden. Why was she able to give a perfectly accurate description of Stormwind?" The blood elf's cogs began turning in his mind, pieces slotting together and some just not quite fitting yet. His undead friend looked stunned at the rapid change in topic.

" _Stormwind_? Are you sure?" Walden wasn't shocked at all at the mention of it, more puzzled, confirming Ryndan's suspicions. Though the repetition he was doing was grating Ryndan's nerves.

"Damned sure, I've visited myself on several occasions for Dawn work. I could practically taste the image she portrayed."

"Dan; I don't know, she never said-" Ryndan's temper was peaking again, having been knocked down after Ashwood's revelation.

"So she has been there? An elf like her? Is she a high-elf? Is that what you've kept from me?" Ryndan recalled Walden mentioning that she came from the south of the continent on the first night of their reunion. Was it Stormwind she hailed from?

"No, Dan. I haven't kept anything from you. She's not from Stormwind-"

"She can't read Thalassian, Walden. _Why?_ What kind of elf cannot read her own mothertongue?" He cut across, anger taking over. It was a question remaining unanswered in Ryndan's mind since hearing of the manual retrieval at Cersae's doing. Too much time in the recovery gave him long enough to process what that had meant.

"What? How do you know she cannot read it?"

"I showed her that damned letter you left in my tent- you wrote it in Thalassian, if you do not recall, as to not be intercepted. She told me she didn't understand a word and judging by the look on her face, I can very well believe it. I thought that perhaps her memory loss impaired her literary recall and so didn't push the subject, but when she returns with a book we had been searching for written in the _Common Tongue_ , she only could have found it on her own from reading the damn thing fluently. _What is going on?"_

"Dan, I cannot tell you, not if she has not even remembered-"

"Show me that diary, I want to see what language it is written in."

"I cannot, it is for her eyes alone-"

"Do not hide behind excuses, Walden! I am tired of these games!" He was readying himself to grab his sword at this rate.

"Captain _that is enough_!" Both men span around to see Ashwood stalking their way, face serious. Cersae, almost like a ghost peered around from behind her, a sack in her arms.

" _Mort_? Ryndan? What- what's going on?" she sounded scared, like he imagined a young woman might be in such bizarre circumstances looking between the two men.

"You are leaving with this…thing," Ashwood explained, gesturing towards Walden unkindly.

"I'm _what?_ " She looked between the three, clearly confused. She started backing away, "err, with all due respect I think I'll stay here, thanks. I have things to do-" Ashwood stood behind her swiftly, halting her exit.

"This is my camp, death knight. _I_ say who stays and who goes, and I am telling you that you are leaving. _Tonight_." Ashwood stated, brooking no argument. The death knight turned to the paladin, somehow hoping that he could prevent this from happening. He avoided her face, looking anywhere but at the white eyes pleading with him to make it not so. He felt a knife twist in his heart. Without being a part of the Crusade, did she stand a chance at finding her Edmund? Could Mort allow her the chance to travel safely through Northrend to find him? Given he was a human man, and most likely staying within Alliance friendly checkpoints, Ryndan doubted she could complete her quest with a Horde companion. He had failed in his mission to repay her. She had saved him twice and this was her reward.

"Why? What have I done that is so wrong?"

No one could answer her. Or would. Silence dominated the group for a moment, before Ryndan's Kaldorei officer interrupted.

"You take her and keep her far away from here, do you understand?" she ordered of Walden. He nodded and made to steer Cersae away. She jumped back, face angry.

"Do I not get a say in where I go? What if I refuse? I can run away."

"You dare risk to take on the wrath of the Argent Crusade? We do not dally with defiers or deserters too kindly." Ashwood spoke this with an alarming calm- not noticeable perhaps to their audience, but Ryndan knew better. His Commander was going too far in her threats. Before he could step in, Cersae puffed her chest out in indignation.

"So I have no say about whom I want to work with and for? Am I not a person in my own right?" she challenged, quite correct in her questioning, Ryndan thought. He wanted to reach out to her, to apologise for this, but his hands remained clenched at his sides. He just hoped that Ashwood would see reason-

"No, you are not. You gave those rights up when you sold your soul to Arthas."

In that moment, declaring that this poor girl was not a person to her face, Ryndan lost most of the respect he held for his superior. Watching Cersae's stunned expression he felt his chest tighten as she was led away slowly with no choice on the matter. Forced to work for whoever and wherever she was told, Cersae had in a way been forced into a violent prostitution of her abilities, simply being passed around as people wanted her, regardless of how she felt. Horror filling him as he realised he had done the same in the catacombs, just as Luciya had also manipulated her, Ryndan was flooded with shame and guilt watching her scarcely clothed back walk away, Walden already bidding goodbye and whisking her away to the south.

Just before they turned out of sight at the clump of trees, she turned once more. Haloed in the effervescent moonlight, Ryndan prayed for silent forgiveness as her expression said nothing but hurt and betrayal, before leaving as silently as a spirit, her back slumped and dejected. A woman's back was supposed to be curved and beautiful wasn't it? But Ryndan saw no pleasure in the view as she left, just sorrow.

"Even when all is said and done, Firesworn, she is a child who has committed terrible, terrible things. It would do you good to remember that." Ashwood said quietly, the exchange now over.

"Then perhaps you should bear in mind also, _Commander,_ that this child is the reason that I am alive and she was doing her damnedest to seek repentance for her actions. Actions which she had no control over and is therefore not accountable for. She needed our _help_ , not our judgement." Ryndan spoke through gritted teeth, not missing the small flinch she gave by his side.

Before she could retort, he picked up his crutch and stormed away, ignoring the pain in his body- for what could hurt worse than the treachery that Cersae had just felt by the Argent Crusade's hands?

* * *


	21. Interlude I- Baron William 'Mort' Walden

The first thing that struck me was her voice.

Our initial meeting in The Highlands three years ago was… _poor._ True enough, my timing could have been a _little_ better; however there was something mischievous in me that wanted to cause a ruckus- and what a ruckus I caused! Stepping out into the sunlight from shadows before her dancing form, watching as she noticed me from a distance, I crying out in as ghastly voice as I could to scare her and annoy Edmund in the process…

Her knee-jerk reaction to seeing me was, well, something of a bad first impression, shall we say.

She had screamed. Not a terror-wailing-cry-of-horror that echo within the sewer dungeons, but a girlish, high-pitched _screech._ Several small animals in the nearby vicinity scarpered to safety- as well as her! Catching up moments later had found her face-to-face with a plains crawler and she didn't fail to utilise those chords of hers once more- by the Dark Lady if I had had eardrums, they _may_ have burst.

Saving her from being arachnid supper led to chasing her once more in her bewildered, uninformed state and I had to say, I quite enjoyed scaring her. Once she had calmed- many, _many_ hours later, I found her voice to be quite pleasing; in the sense that she was a sarcastic, fiery little chit who could give as good as she got. And so began our beautiful banter.

My favourite word from her was 'corpse'. She said it so smoothly, especially when insulting me, that I couldn't not find it endearing, bless her.

I've yet to hear her call me that again, even in jest and it makes my soul ache.

* * *

When she was kidnapped a few months later…it had been a few decades since I felt such terror rip through me. The thought of her in harm's way shook me, but the thought of her _harmed_ was an idea too grievous for me to dwell upon. I had grown to love her like my own flesh and blood in the few months we had known each other. She was an apt pupil and blessed child. Even watching her dwindle in misery as Edmund drew further and further away from her in his fanatical pursuit, I did what I could to keep her occupied. It distracted her enough, just not enough to take that sadness from her voice.

And then she disappeared from our sights, nothing of hers taken, just a diary entry as our only clue. And so we searched for days- only to find her in the clutches of that bastard Warlock! Locked in a cage, surrounded by death and Black Magic in the Plaguelands, Edmund and I looked on with horror. And then we were attacked by _atrocities._

She called for help, screamed for us to rescue her, and I fought harder than my body would allow for to make my way there. Edmund managed to jump past the fray, me taking on as much of the attack as I could to allow him to get away. That dark orb of nothing was getting closer and closer to her, she had gone quiet and without knowing her fate, I had despaired in that moment of silence at the thought of her gone.

But then she uttered the words that caused her entire life to change. That voice which I had grown so accustomed to hearing and conversing with cried out terrible words that my poor spirit will never forget.

_"EDMUND, STOP!"_

And then she died. A gargle caught in her throat. I watched, sprinting as fast as I could to try to stop the outpour of blood from her mouth as she collapsed to the cage floor. The jerking…it was inhuman. The crunching and cracking of her bones breaking filled me with unspeakable horror. A final incomplete wail was her death's knell before her body disappeared out of our sight- along with the Warlock.

Edmund cried and cried, pounding the ground, destroying the cage she had just vacated without warning. I didn't blame him for pausing, human reflexes caused him to be startled at her cry, but he never forgave himself. In the months following he was fraught with madness at her gone. Searching the rest of Lordaeron high and low until he came upon that damned floating citadel, determined to follow and find it in the North, leaving without me on his journey.

If I ever visited that place again, where she had so crudely died in a way no person should, the dark stain would still be on the base of her confinement, so I vowed never to return.

I only vowed revenge for her, for Edmund, but for most of all, for me, for that Warlock took something most precious from me and for the second time in my life, I lost my family.

* * *

When we next met after the Battle for Light's Hope she had broken. White hair, transparent skin, hollow eyes, blood-stained, tainted soul. Even with all of this, I had recognised her from somewhere deep within me. And then she uttered my self-given epithet.

_"Mort."_

For the briefest of moments I heard her dying all over again- the blood bubbling from her small mouth, beautiful brown eyes wide in terror, and yet here she was, in front of me.

I looked over her for two weeks day and night before leaving. Her voice, her spirit, her soul – all were in pieces. No longer did she speak in fluctuating inflections, mutter under her breath as she calculated and theorised and sing poorly along to songs she barely knew the words to. No, now she spoke like _them_. Monotone, unwavering, unfeeling. The echo was absent, but it wasn't needed. When she said my name, it was wrong. When she spoke of her distant memories, it was wrong. When she said she barely remembered Edmund, it was so very wrong. When she waved off slaughtering the who-knew-how-many…It. Was. _Wrong._

Her passion had died when she had, and I wasn't going to rest while she was in this state until a cure had been found. Not for as long as these old bones of mine will still carry me.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of several small chapters about the thoughts of some of the other characters in the story, starting with our beloved Baron and his own heartbreak.


	22. Theories

_Edmund isn't on a mission for the R.A.S. he's been dreadfully tricked and he's in great trouble._   
_I upset Mort too much to ask his help and I need to go now, there's no waiting._   
_I'll find him and bring him back._   
_Grom'nish is meeting me at the Bulwark, I'll leave before first light, my pack is ready to go._   
_I've managed to eat something today, I just hope that I can keep it down._   
_Sleep won't come easy, I think, not while I'm worrying about him..._   
_My experiments will just have to wait, I'm sure Sally doesn't mind keeping_   
_her eye on them until I come back. When I find Edmund I'll tell him how I feel-_   
_I don't want to be here anymore, I want to go home no matter what trouble that'll put me in._   
_The bats are so loud at night, I want to sleep without being scared of their_   
_screeching._

_Note to self- need more Plaguebloom, need to speak to Apothecary Lydon about that when_   
_I return. A new cauldron wouldn't go amiss either._

_Cersae._

"So, I willingly followed this Warlock into his evil lair?" I asked closing the roughly bound book.

The Undead beside me paused, probably thinking of the answer that would least upset me, though I don't know why he bothered. "Not quite. Well, yes technically you went voluntarily, but as I understand it, it was under false pretences. So you were fooled, really," he rambled.

"Oh, that makes me feel a whole lot better about this Limbo situation I have going on here then. At least I know I was just an ignorant girl rather than a foolishly stupid one who signed up willingly," I cited, my temper remaining at its irritated state since I had left the camp late last night. We had been walking most of the night and day, stopping a couple of hours away from our destination to 'formulate a plan', as Walden had said. I had no idea where we were, the sun was close to setting and a low-lying mist was slowly coating everything within its shadow. At least the rock I was leaning against was comfortable.

"No, Little Girl, you were just doing what you thought was best. The Warlock fooled us all- you into thinking Edmund was in danger and us into thinking you had run away." His yellow eyes flitted to the leather bound journal in my hands. "We didn't find that diary until we had come back after- after the incident."

I had just finished reading the last entry, barely a quarter of the way through the book, the rest with blank pages of potential that never happened. It only covered about six weeks' worth of writing- some entries personal and others scientific, but either way it was gibberish to me. Reading this book was akin to reading someone else's life- something very far away that you only glimpse of no matter how far you stretch your imagination. Very little of it seemed remotely familiar, even the handwriting was foreign to me- and I only had this man's word that it was the truth and that it was mine.

So naturally I doubted it with every fibre of my being.

With last night's events and my overall self-worth dropping to less than dirt overnight, I had resigned myself that I wasn't going to be allowed my own way. Perhaps this was even my way of repenting through external forces denying me of what I wanted, no matter how virtuous my intentions are. It had come as a fleeting thought in a sea of turmoil in the wee hours before sunrise and helped calm me down since. Not that that stopped me from being very pissed off with my new companion, no matter how good _his_ intentions were.

Closing the book, I placed 'my' diary into my one and only sack with my few other personal items. My own parchment and inkwell still remained unused, just having found nothing worth writing down or recording as of yet. The gifted black ribbon tied my uneven hair at the back of my neck, making its odd lengths less unnoticeable. The comb…ah, yes, _the comb_. I had tried to use the comb but my hair declared war on it and nearly broke its teeth. Not wanting to damage the fine item beyond repair, I had patiently untangled it from my white mane and it sat at the very bottom of my bag. I turned to the sullen man across from me who was currently pouring over a detailed map on what I thought to be leather.

"So, what are we going to do to get this damned tomfoolery you seem to think I'm capable of solving over and done with?" I asked, unamused and unforgiving of whatever answer was headed my way. He glanced at me cautiously, no doubt sensing my general aura of 'You-can-make-perfect-sense-and-I'll-still-pick-a- hole-in-it' attitude that I was currently sporting. I had to say, I thought I wore it well. Leaning back on his heels from looking over the map on the ground he regarded me.

"Well, there's no hiding your appearance, you are what you look like at the moment-"

"A heathen mess? A bleached corpse? A-"

" _Enough,_ Cersae. I know you're angry with me but this is the situation now so cooperate and make it smooth or fight me and brace yourself for a rough ride," he berated, voice scratchy and gruff. I was unsure if he was threatening me or just pointing out the general state of things. Huffing, I decided not to find out, unarmed as I was just in case.

"I think you should hide your Death Knight persona as best as and carry on pretending to be a blood elf. An albino one, perhaps."

"An _albino_? Do you really think that'll wash with anyone who looks at me with two eyes?" I _really_ doubted it. So did Mort apparently.

"A _sickly_ albino, then. The Apothecaries probably aren't going to care one way or another but it would be best to hide any evidence that you can battle- using Scourge abilities no less," he spat. "But I would prefer they view you as a simple alchemist interested in furthering the advances in the plague, rather than complicating things. If they find out, who knows what sort of experiments they might try on you."

"I see. So you want me to make this plague of yours? I thought that kind of went against the rules?"

"No, I want you to interpret and understand it, not further it. Gain their trust so they show you their most up-to-date results and notes; find out what their plans for it are. If it's Scourge only then we are safe, but if it's being extended beyond that, then we have to take other measures."

"So infiltrate the inner workings of the dreaded apothecaries, investigate their research, report this back to you and counteract as necessary? Sounds terribly _espionage,_ " I surmised, working a little feigned excitement into my voice.

"Yes, I suppose it is. Finely put." He seemed quite happy at my understanding of the whole situation, so I decided to put a dampener on it.

"Yeah, one problem there Baron, _I don't recall learning Alchemy_." I watched as his scabbed face fell drastically, unblinking eyes drinking me in determining how much of the truth I was telling.

"Your notes – they make no sense to you?"

"Nope, not a jot. I see numbers, letters, what I assume to be formula and measurements of some description but I have no idea what I am looking at." While my journal pages were easy enough to understand, albeit hard to remember, the dedicated alchemic notes were scrawled, untidy and jumbled. I think. Looking at them for the first time, I couldn't see any discernible order to the tables of results and observations. Theories and summaries here and there scored out and underlined. I secretly hoped this wasn't my journal, such disorganisation chaffing at my mind.

"I- I confess, I was hoping that they would help you remember." He _actually_ looked dejected. Marvellous.

"Sorry to burst your bubble, Baron." I emphasised each 'B' grossly, probably winding him up further with any luck.

"And the Apothecary notes that I copied from Vengeance Landing? They mean nothing to you either?" He had shown me these notes before showing me the journal, watching me intently for any modicum of understanding. I shook my head, reiterating that I was as clueless as he was.

"You aren't lying to me, are you girl? Because if so, you'll be here a long time until you decide to cooperate-" I rose, stopping him in his tracks.

"Now hang on a moment, call me many things but not a liar. I have no intention of prolonging this- this _sidestep_ you've dragged me on any longer than necessary. I came here to find Edmund and yet between you and the damned Crusade, you both seem to be content using me as your own pawn for your own means, regardless of what I want to do. The sooner this whole business is over with the bloody better, I say." I glared at him, the past few hours' tension coming to the forefront again.

"That better be the truth, girl or else-"

"Or else _what_ , Mort?" I asked bored. "What on earth do you really think you can do to me? I can't die, pain has no meaning to me and if you haven't noticed I'm not scared of _anything._ So what exactly do you think you can hold against me to keep me in place beyond what I will behave on my own as?" I challenged, getting beyond irritated with his mightier-than-thou complex. And here I thought Ryndan was the arrogant one. Reacting to my challenge, Mort stood across from me, face serious and grim.

"You better watch your tongue girl, I am your only ally in these parts at the moment and you don't want to be getting on the wrong side of me."

"Ha! There's a threat if I ever heard one. Rest assured, _Mort_ , I'd probably do better off on my own anyway. As it is, being with you is going to provide lodging and less hassle. At least this way you won't be following my ass around Northrend trying to kidnap me back here to do your bidding. Let's get this ridiculous situation over with so I can be free, deal?" I held out one small hand, regarding him coolly. Groaning a sigh of frustration, Mort grasped my hand and shook. I could feel the individual bones beneath his gloves wrapping around my limb, each hard phalange cracking with their curving.

"I want what's best for you too, you know, regardless of how this all looks," he said quietly.

"Yeah, well, that'll remain to be seen won't it," I replied, not convinced. For a moment we stood there, connected by a dead handshake in some absurd gesture of grace and formality, to be observed by no one else but two creatures who deemed such things unnecessary.

_"Walden is my formal name, but what're formalities in the after-life, eh?"_

"What?" I pulled my hand free, confused.

"What?" Mort questioned.

"Why did you say that? I know your name," I stated very confused.

"My- what? Are you alright? I didn't say anything," he spoke gently, trying not to spook me.

"But it was your- never mind," I frowned. Was that a memory? That was definitely his voice I heard, though it was gruffer than his present tones…

"Hmm, that's something you need to practice before we arrive," Mort interrupted my musings, tapping his grey chin.

"Huh?"

"Breathing, you need to at least act alive at any rate. I know you can't eat, so we'll just have to hope no one notices you don't take meals, but we'll figure something out. "

"Breathing? I- right." The man had a point; I would stand out horrendously if someone noticed my lack of respiratory action, especially in Northrend where such things are personified into puffs of cloud. "Alright then. Let me try this." Deliberately and slowly I drew a lungful of air, feeling my chest expanding beneath my thin shirt. The sensation was beyond foreign to my stale body, not having needed breathe for three years. I half-expected to let out dust upon completing the cycle.

"Now release," Mort gestured, pushing two hands downwards in a description of letting go, I assume.

And I couldn't do it. My chest didn't deflate, I didn't expel anything into the air, I just stood, puffed out like a balloon.

"M-Mort, I think I'm stuck." My voice was a little higher pitched and monotone, but that wasn't what pissed me off. Mort laughing his bony ass off did.

"Practice, Little Girl! Just takes some practice!"

* * *

_Westguard- Six Hours After Arriving._

"I'm concerned about you, Firesworn. Your attitude regarding the death knight girl seems unstable when it comes to reasonable situations. You did not maintain your cool."

"I have received a thorough understanding of her and her situation. I pity her, Commander. We are taught from birth to pity the poor and wretched, to help where possible. I cannot think of a more suitable candidate to fit such a description as her." He spoke. Even though they were speaking on a professional level again, the normal amity between them had dissolved. Caught on two sides of a coin, by landing face-up, Commander Ashwood had pushed Ryndan into the ground with her win, forever losing a great deal of respect.

"Yes, that is true, but she is a volatile element in my contingent that I cannot risk a Paladin's goodwill on, not when my men's safety is at risk. If she is as deadly as the report from the catacombs claim, and yes, I made sure to get the full description from that frivolous engineer, then even without that, the state that she carried you back in coupled with your trauma is enough to make my mind up. I shouldn't have to defend my actions, Captain, however I feel it is very important that you see the reasoning behind it." Ryndan noted the lack of condescension in her voice, but it still didn't sit well with him, her words. Staying silent for a moment, he let the words sink in. Yes, realistically, from an outsider's point of view he could see the merit in what she had done. Viewing Cersae as one-of-a-number is all very well and good, but she was more than that, she was a lost person. It had only been two days since Cersae had left, but her small, crestfallen figure still haunted his mind as it walked out of sight.

"I understand, Commander. My personal intentions to help her got in the way of my ability to think and I apologise for my rash behaviour," he said humbly, glad that things were partially resolved, but upset at the state she left in, not understanding.

"It's forgotten, Captain, just don't let it happen again." She paused, taking a long drink from her steaming mug. Giving Ryndan a pointed look she asked, "You are sure it is only pity you feel towards the girl?" The directness of her question on top of her unblinking gaze made him nervous and suspicious. The unarmoured Captain shifted under her scrutiny, not comfortable discussing such topics, especially in a public taproom- even if they were the only patrons still awake.

"Sir? If you are implying some form of inappropriate attachment to her, then I have to disappoint you. I find it hard to separate the image of her from my own younger sisters, finding myself questioning what would it be like if one of them was in her shoes? Does she have family concerned about her whereabouts? Do they think she is dead? She is younger than me, Commander, yet her life is already tragically altered through no fault of her own. Can you see why I sympathise with her?" he explained as earnestly as he could muster.

"In a sense. Good, that clarifies things up, however I must ask- how can you confirm that she did not join Arthas out of any freely made choice?"

"Walden- That is Baron William Walden, Ambassador from the Undercity to the Dawn- has known Cersae since before she was Turned and has said as much."

"What else?"

"I'm sorry?"

"What else is there to confirm his statement? Her word? No other witnesses? Records of her disappearance? Nobody reported it- her family perhaps?"

"Nothing has come to light as of yet, Commander, though I confess I have not looked too far into it since we have been preoccupied. If I may, I don't understand where you're going with this?"

"Let me surmise my thoughts, Firesworn." She leaned forward on the table, clasping her hands together in front of her. "We have two people who apparently knew each other from years back, telling the same story surrounding apparent- and highly _convenient_ \- memory loss on her part. No one else can verify that she was forced into servitude as their story claims, simply that she had no choice. Now, you have taken it for granted on this … _Forsaken's_ word that this is the truth and questioned it no further, am I correct?"

"Yes, Sir, I did."

"And others take your word because you, who hold a rightfully good reputation, believe this to be true, thus spreading this story and making it more believable to the point it's not questioned. Now, providing that she puts on a good enough act, it's possible to follow this story easy enough to gain pity and trust where she just so happens to unleash unimaginable power in the most advantageous situations- like saving your life. By doing so, she grants herself a foothold in the Argent Crusade and can climb her way high enough to gain access to plans and information through her trust, does she not?" Ryndan stared at the violet-coloured woman, she may have well grown a second head first before seeming as shocking as this.

"Are you suggesting that Cersae is a Scourge _Spy_ , Commander?" The very thought baffled him! His mind started to seek out every interaction he had had with her and whether she had questioned him further, subtly digging for information- and whether he had provided her with it or not. A small alarm planted in his mind, steadily growing with each passing second.

"No, I am proposing the possibility of her being a _Forsaken_ Spy. In cahoots with her Undead _friend,_ she has stayed with us for a month and possibly gathered information to pass forward to them in the event that she rejoined them- like she did two nights ago," she explained calmly, her tired eyes alert and steady with her intimations.

"And you just let her walk off with him with any information she may have gathered with the projected idea that _she was a spy in the first place_?" Ryndan was still struggling to get his head around the possibility- no, the _im_ possibility of such a scenario. That small, frail girl? A spy! But despite his disbelief, the Commander made sense like a distant lantern in a foggy swamp of turmoil.

"Indeed I did, for my initial reasoning for her departure still stands. Information and plans can be changed, Captain, but dead troops cannot come back to life."

"I-I see. And what about her halting the Undead Plague? Will she in fact help them? You must think me very foolish, Commander," he said ashamed as he never even gave two thoughts to doubting her, let alone Walden. He had known that man for years, surely he wasn't so underhanded as to lie and scheme behind his back? Then again, his story regarding the Horde landing site raised serious thoughts regarding the long-dead Baron and his loyalties. Ryndan felt very torn.

"To your first question, I cannot say, that will remain to be seen. What I _have_ suggested is a possibility drawn from the mind of a cautious war veteran, Captain, nothing more. But no, I do not think you are foolish." She leaned back in her chair; long legs stretch out to the side. "To hope for the best in someone, even someone as lowly as a cursed knight, shows the strength of your character over mine. I can only say that I hope I am wrong in my conclusions- we shall find out if the Forsaken turn up 'unexpectedly' at sites designated for Crusade purposes. If it is complete with a working plague, then we will have our answers."

"That's a large risk, is it not?

"Not so large in my mind that I'd risk her presence here to prevent it. If she snapped again in the middle of camp, beyond whatever control she possesses and slaughtered who knew how many, then that would be on my hands for not ridding of her sooner." Her tone bespoke volumes of wisdom and experience, though the shadow of tiredness fell over it, dulling her sharp words.

"I understand, Commander. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me further on this." Somehow Ryndan felt that he would have a lot of late nights contemplating the enigma that the girl was.

"Think nothing of it, Captain. I am much, much older than you and more wary of people. I wish I could see the world as you do- positive and full of potential." It was the first melancholic thing Ryndan had ever heard his superior say in his presence, softening his overall image of the battle-worn Commander. It was a little easier to see that she was a mortal woman beneath all of her armour.

"Speaking of positive, a letter was forwarded from Valgarde to me hailing from Dalaran," the Sin'dorei said, retrieving said letter from beneath his jerkin and handed it to his superior.

"Dalaran? You have contacts there?" she asked, unfolding the finely-written response.

"Not personally, no, but Yazmina provided me with a name that could help our understanding of Death Knights as a whole. Given they are still a part of our enemy's armies I didn't think it would hurt to find out more regarding their weaknesses and strengths."

"I agree. I will be eager to hear your results. What started this off?"

"Ah, yes. Two days into Valgarde there was the first Vrykul attack." She nodded in remembrance. "Cersae was critically injured on the battlefield and I saw her healing powers at work for the first time. A wedge as big as my fist, right in her side- a halberd's work." Though he now had to wonder if her slipup and poor swordwork was intentional or not. Shaking his tired head slightly, he continued. "When she was in the Healer's tent, she was stripped to the waist and bandaged over her torso- but there was something disturbing about her, Commander. Tell me, physically, how would you describe a typical Death Knight?"

"Peak of their fitness, I would say. A perfect soldier's physique and posture," she described with an unhesitating factual tone.

"Precisely. Cersae however was not. She looked waned and sickly- her bones protruded from her skin, Commander. I've seen terminally ill patients with more health to them at the point of death than her. I could count her ribs, probably cut myself on the collar bone the way it jutted out. She had no muscle tone to speak of, sir- she looked physically starved to death, her entire body deflated and gaunt."

"That is very serious, Captain," Ashwood's posture changed from relaxed and loose to straight up and full of serious intent. _Just as well, she was going to need her wits about her for this_ , Ryndan thought.

"I agree. I spoke with Yazmina and Lorik regarding the state of her later on and we were all baffled by it. Being the Port's prime healer and one of our own top ones, I thought them best to discuss it with but they said they felt nothing emanating off of her- no life, not anything, sir.

"So what of Dalaran?"

"Well…" Ryndan relayed the conversation to his Commanding Officer, the woman listening intently to every word.

* * *

_Fifteen Days after Landing in Northrend: Valgarde._

"It was a strange feeling, healing her arm wound. There was no life to connect to, no …" Lorik paused, unable to think of the words he needed. He frowned in frustration. Two years on Azeroth had taught him much- including the Common language seemingly spoken by the majority he knew- but he was still discovering new vocabulary every day. He gave up with a small sigh. His company understood his meaning anyway- she didn't need healing like most of his patients did, it was unusual and odd to do. Unnatural in fact.

"Yes, they are a strange being, these Death Knights," Thoralius added looking thoughtful. "They are not wholly dead, but not alive either," The shaman finished. Ryndan took this information in with little surprise. His thoughts drifted back to the 'discussion' he had had with the girl after the battle. He was concerned now, not only for her actions on the battlefield, but for her physical state of being and had sought information from those who may know better.

"She was so thin; I had not noticed it before beneath her clothes." The image of the skeletal torso- ribs and shoulder bones poking out painfully- rose once more in his mind's eye. Her arms were thin enough that he could have wrapped his hands around them and probably snapped them and her waist was distinctly absent as she flowed straight into her legs- which he had no doubt were equally as sickly looking. For such a strong fighter- for she had taken on a Vrykul and got him on his knees; something which took his Crusaders at least three of them to do- her physique lacked any indication of strength to even walk never mind lift an axe. He had pulled her from the battlefield mainly because of her poor fighting style- he had concluded that only in her strange frenzy could she battle well- but after seeing her body…he feared her breaking like a twig, so void was she of muscle tone. She looked as though her muscles had atrophied beyond death.

"Why do the others look so healthy?" He puzzled, it just didn't make sense. The two Draenei opposite him contemplated in their silent ways. As lead healers in their respective groups, Ryndan thought them the best to ask advice. Lorik had introduced him to Thoralius the Wise- a friend of his from way back when who was currently stationed in Valgarde. He thought of Darksworn, muscular and in his prime and other Death Knights- Thassarian and Deathweaver- and how they, while seemingly dead- still looked robust and strong, intimidating, even.

"Perhaps she was Turned while in that condition?" Thoralius interjected, positioning incense sticks in his strange angled fire pit. Night had fallen and the attacks on the port tonight were scarce- the source of light coming from the nearby bonfires as usual. Ryndan blanched at the idea of any living being looking as ill as she.

"I doubt it, but I will ask someone who should know." Said person being Walden- he had not heard from him since he left for the Undercity but added the enquiry to a mental list of interrogatory questions he had lined up for the Baron, alongside _What in the name of the Light are the Forsaken doing attacking the Dawn_ and _Did you know about it?_ That was not a conversation he was looking forward to.

"Talia made some observations at Light's Hope Chapel about Death Knights. We attended a small handful after the main battle." Lorik started, looking deeply into the fire that Thoralius had now lit. He rest one large hand on his chin, stroking his black beard thoughtfully. "She had a theory that they were in a…" he muttered in Draenei, lost for words again, turning to Thoralius for help. Ryndan liked Lorik- he had met him over a year ago when Talia introduced them in Stormwind, before they had marched on the Eastern Plaguelands. Ryndan had felt strangely out of place in the Alliance Capital, but being of the Dawn, he was welcomed with open arms. He and the Draenei had an easy friendship- the Blood Elf had yet to find someone who didn't get on with him- and he was easy to approach, despite his large stature and stoic expressions. He and Talia made a good team, despite the rather comical difference in their statures.

"Stationary?" Thoralius projected, the two of them still trying to translate this word for Ryndan's benefit. He waited patiently, lost in his own thoughts about the situation.

"Along those lines- standing still in life, she said. Unmoving, un-ageing." Lorik continued. The port was quiet tonight, void of the portion who currently struggled on the north-east coast. Hopefully positive news would be received soon, or better yet, the stranded themselves.

"Stasis?" a female voice entered the conversation- a Draenei woman dressed in dark robes. The three men turned to regard her respectfully.

"Yes! Many thanks, Yazmina." Lorik smiled, her response a soft nod. "Talia's theory is that they are in a _stasis_ , frozen in their bodies by powerful magic. I cannot account for their healing abilities or while they are animate and _conscious_ even though dead, but it was not a comfortable feeling attempting to heal young Cersae."

"It's puzzling given that I have no idea what kind of magic is possibly involved to create such beings. It is best to learn as much about them, but they are shrouded in mystery. We may now be allied with them, but not all of Arthas' soldiers turned to the Ebon Blade. We only had those at Acherus and a small handful that have turned in Northrend upon meeting the Ebon Blade." Thoralius stated, his speech laced with a mild accent.

"It is a … dead magic I sense, when near them. They emit a void aura, it is empty." Yazmina told the men. Lorik later told Ryndan that she was an Anchoress, a priestess, by closest definition that Ryndan understood. She was a very gifted healer and had been at Valgarde since its founding. Falling into silence around the fire pit, they all felt as confused as each other not sure what to feel about their new allies.

"If I may intrude, I would suggest looking towards Necromancy as a probable cause." Everyone turned to the newcomer- a human dressed in the closest thing to finery possible in the harbour. He had long, greying hair, and a large balding head, but carried himself well. "Forgive me, overheard the conversation as I was walking by- Rowan Helfgot of the Royal Stormwind Society of Science." He gave a small bow, receiving four respectful nods in return.

"Necromancy you say? Death Magic?" Ryndan ventured, his mind now turning with ideas.

"Something akin to that. It's a bit more involved than mere 'Death Magic'. Death Knights, as you've guessed and most likely seen, are Harbingers of Destruction. Their power is not natural and derives from a forbidden source of some kind. Whatever power Arthas wielded to create them, it's most likely he's using the same to control the Scourge." His audience nodded in slow understanding. "It's even possible that he imbued the Knights with a small amount of this power to make them as seemingly invincible as they are. I know not enough about Necromancy to say whether it's the cause of their unnatural healing or not, but I would estimate that it is most likely related."

"Yes, they do not need nourishment or heat. Water is also of little use to them" Yazmina spoke confidently; she must have seen a number of Knights pass through here the last weeks and had a strong idea about them, possibly better than the rest of them. Ryndan was startled to learn they didn't eat or drink, yet he felt foolish for not realising. Mort had hinted at it, and now that he thought about it, he hadn't seen any of the two Knights in his charge at the dining hall or sitting around a fire with a bowl of broth. He frowned, not liking being out of the loop. He had seen the lack of warmth shortly after the second attack at Light's Hope- the girl had mumbled about not feeling anything while staring at a dead fire pit, but even if it were lit, Ryndan thought she still wouldn't benefit from it. What a sorry state to live in, he thought harrowingly with a small pang of pity going out to those who didn't ask for such an existence. He wondered if Walden was in a similar way of living, being Forsaken. A cursed race if there ever was one- the Undercity just reeked of death and decay… many of the inhabitants turning dark natured alongside their new afterlife. In fact, a few of them dealt with Death Magic in effort to cure their own curse…

"Warlocks- Warlocks used Necromancy, don't they?" Ryndan asked, surprised he remembered. He received three confused looks and one nodding-of-a-head.

"I do not know what that is, my friend." Lorik answered, his Draenei companions looking lost too. Helfgot straightened, stepping closer into the group. Ryndan caught a whiff of a very strong smelling perfume about the man, and granting his attire, he wasn't at all surprised at the man's attempt to stay clean and fashionable, though he wasn't sure why the man would bother in port.

"No, you are right. Not all Warlocks specialise in Necromancy, as far as I am aware, but they have a stronger knowledge and can most likely give you answers than any person here. They are a rare breed, given the, ah, _controversial nature_ of their studies." Helfgot inputted. Ryndan had not met any Warlocks personally but had come across them in his own studies growing up and hearing rumours from Walden about the Undead ones. 'Rare' was one word for it, extremely secretive and highly unlikely to find' being more fitting. Their reputation wasn't entirely admirable or trusting, he had learned.

"Walden had mentioned a Warlock being the cause of Cersae's turning," the Elf told his companions, frowning. This theory of Necromancy was looking more and more likely. "Yes, he definitely blamed a Warlock." He crossed his arms, the others watching him curiously.

"Right, we need to find a Warlock or two to question on this, and also, I think, we'll recruit our Death Knight friends in learning their limitations. Like you said, Thoralius, we need all we can know about them as possible if we are to fight them intelligently." Ryndan's mood lifted a little, having been troubled since seeing the girl in such a frail state, even though she had such fire in her eyes- her irises whiter than her hair and skin, glaring sharply into his own when they argued.

"Dalaran is probably your best bet in regards to finding a Warlock, but don't hold your hopes up." Helfgot said, tapping his chin thoughtfully.

"I think I can put you into contact with one, but allow me to ask his permission first, before granting you his name," Yazmina said, her voice soft and calming- the best kind for any sort of doctor in his experience. Her general presence put people at ease, hence why Ryndan was surprised at her knowledge of someone as dark as a Warlock.

"Thank you, Anchorite Yazmina, your help is greatly appreciated."

* * *

"So this Warlock has agreed to see me whenever I can visit Dalaran," Ryndan relayed.

"As of the present time there are no plans to go via Dalaran, however I cannot stop you visiting if you went on your own leave time now, could I?" Ashwood smirked. Ryndan laughed softly, the dying fire in the room long indicating it was past the time to go to bed. He drained his own mug of hot milk and sat it to the side, face serious once more.

"I do believe I have some unused leave time available. I can settle the troops in here first before taking a break to go there once everything is in place. How long are we like to sit tight here?" he asked, not sure if his rank was to be in the know of high-level information.

"About two to three weeks I think. The current update from the frontlines proper as of four days ago is that they are still constructing the main bases at the entrance direct into Icecrown- apparently there's a large metallic gate blocking the way. I shouldn't say we are surprised, it would be unfitting of our aggressor to be without his own defences otherwise I would be sorely disappointed," she grinned. For someone as feminine as Ashwood appeared out of armour, she had a distinct battle-thirst that few possessed. Not often did Ryndan come across someone who respected war and revelled in it like she. "Once this portcullis- dubbed The _Wrathgate_ \- is besieged and taken we can push further to his fortress. However, they cannot hold our numbers until the keep is complete, so we'll march once word has been received," she finished, finishing the last dregs of her tankard in one swoop.

"I can take a few days out to travel to Dalaran then and seek this Warlock and his advice, with any luck we can make some significant advances and hopefully arrive prepared. In the meanwhile I spoke with Terowin Darksworn on the matter and he stated that it was unnatural but couldn't say why she was like that. He theorised that when she was turned- if indeed it was forced- that her will to resist may have carried over into Undeath and she still fights without realising. Due to this, she has cut herself off of the power that feeds her from Arthas and is dwindling. When she 'awoke' at Light's Hope, he said it was like a rope was lassoed around her for the past three years, and she was resisting, pulling away as hard as possible but upon coming around the rope snapped and she fell backwards, thus indicating her bodily decline."

"Very poetic for someone _like him._ A very interesting theory however, it's a lot to consider. I'm glad it's you sorting through all of this than me," she smirked earning a tired smile from Ryndan. He found it conflicting with the ideas put forth by Ashwood, the very idea that she is a spy gaining trust in the ranks. He could not commit to either hypothesis on what she was, caught between wanting to believe in her, and putting facts together to draw a logical conclusion.

"Indeed, it's a bigger undertaking than I anticipated. But even so, surely she cannot fake her own physical state, regardless of her loyalties?"

"I am unsure to what extent Death Knights can control their bodies, for all we know that as much as they can make themselves stronger than ten men, perhaps they can take it to the opposite end of the spectrum also? Who's to say what lengths creatures like these will go to get what they want."

He drew his rough hands over his face, feeling the patch of growth on his chin indicating he was long overdue for a shave. Tomorrow, he resolved. "A scary potential if you are correct, Commander. I don't like the idea of it."

"Nor do I Captain, nor do I."

* * *


	23. Diverging

_Westguard- One Day after Arriving, Early Morning; Four Days since Cersae Departed.  
_

Taking a deep breath, Ryndan rested again, unable to get through a simple task like shaving without his shoulders jilting in pain. He had slept poorly after speaking with Ashwood last night, so many theories and dreaded possibilities swirling around messily in his head. Waking this morning before morning prayers and breakfast proved to be more of a feat than taking on four vrykul at once- or so it felt.

"I can help you with that, if you would prefer?"

Glancing in the crooked sheet of metal serving as the mirror, Ryndan was met with the image of Bartheleus- well dressed and in the bathhouse for the same reason as himself judging by the equipment in his hands.

"Thank you for the offer-"

"Captain, you are still recovering and your arms will tire from trying to stay as still. I have experience, allow me, please," the night elf mildly commanded. Sitting his tools down, he steered Ryndan onto a roughly hewn chair, facing another 'mirror'. A little more luxurious than Valgarde, the general furnishing and architecture of the keep and surrounding buildings seemed grander and held more comforts than Ryndan was used to when on campaign.

"This really isn't necessary, I appreciate your offer but-"

"But you fear your name falling into bad rumours with mine?" there was no offense in his deep voice, in fact Ryndan would wager a keen amusement as the man formed a lather in his wooden bowl, well defined hands expertly working. Ryndan's own shaving bowl was ceramic and decorated with flowers- something of a gift from his youngest sister Anelisa- before he left on his first campaign years back. Well made, it had yet to even chip during any of his campaigns, occupying a very particular niche in his travelling luggage.

"Rumours?" Leaning his head back at the direction of the Kaldorei man, Ryndan looked up to him, noticing the near-black beard beginning to form on his long face. Wincing as the soap was applied over the small cuts made by Ryndan's own unsteady hands, Bartheleus smiled and explained.

"Being associated with me in the wrong way could potentially harm your reputation, Captain. Stay happy though in the thought that I am no longer for men's' disposal- or anyone else's for that matter, as I mentioned to you before. Sadly, _my_ reputation for my previous occupation isn't as well received as Luciya's is in these parts. The settlements become a little bit more _cliquey_ the further north one comes." Ryndan shared a sardonic chuckle with the man, assuring him he cared little for such talk. Content that Ryndan's jaw was covered, enough; the night elf gracefully admired the Captain's own shaving blade, commenting that the intricacy of the handle was beautiful.

"Thank you, a birthday gift- many years old, accompanied with the home made bowl," he explained, remembering his father gifting the fine item many years ago. "Were you a barber before- well, before…"

"Before I became a male whore?" he laughed deeply. "No, it was one of many services offered at our particular bordello. We were to attend to the clients in as many ways as they could imagine from personal care and hygiene to massage to sex and even to being rented out for a simple conversation. Though, I confess those sorts of clients were far and few between unfortunately."

"I'm surprised. Forgive my lack of knowledge in the area, I haven't visited one." The blade scraped cleanly across his cheek, the usual friction Ryndan felt when he attended his own shaving absent. This man truly had talent.

"It is not to everyone's taste. Mine included if I am honest." Gently tipping Ryndan's head back further, the larger hands ghosted over his neck, softly curving the blade to the shape of the under-chin.

"How long did you work there, may I ask?"

"Several years."

"And your reasoning for entering?"

"Little choice had been offered to me leading up to my employment there, I was desperate. However, when Luciya left an opportunity presented itself and I broke free. I daresay if I ever make my way back to the city I will not be welcomed kindly by the underworld of Stormwind." Cleaning the blade, he set it away carefully, caressing the wooden handle before laying it to rest in its rightful box. Taking Ryndan's worn towel, he dabbed the newly bare chin clean, his sharp eyes seeing everything in the mirror from behind Ryndan.

"You left under unfavourable circumstances I take it?"

"Yes, you could call them that." He scrutinised Ryndan further in the mirror before retrieving a pair of scissors and comb from his own pack. "Face the front, your hair needs sorting."

"But-"

"Trust me, you will thank me later. Part and parcel of the training I received, I can make any man or woman work with what they have and your hair grew out of its style long ago." Ryndan had noticed this as well as his itching beard and had vowed to visit a barber as soon as he could allocate one. Seeing as one had presented itself of their own free will, Ryndan sighed and leaned back, leaving him in the mercy of this man who apparently knew best.

"May I ask- was it to do with the engineering accident Luciya suffered, your departure?" The wet comb that had been gently working its way through Ryndan's brown hair stopped, the flash of anger not missed in the mirror.

"There was no engineering accident," Bartheleus muttered, his long artist's hands working their way again. Throwing Ryndan a cautious look in the mirror before checking that the bathhouse was still empty, he sighed. "It's a simple cover story because neither she- nor I for that matter- want to remember." Ryndan had little opportunity to speak to this man directly, but knew his severe face from about Valgarde and now Westguard. His strong nose, serious brow and high cheeks gave him the image of being someone quite startling and angry, but in his little experience with the man, Ryndan found this not to be true. His eyes bespoke a quiet intelligence few in Ryndan's company possessed. It was the kind of smarts that came with crude experience and steep learning curves. Despite his admissions to being a prostitute, Ryndan found the man to be very likeable- a trustworthy companion almost and seeing how diligently he cared for his female co-worker from afar, Ryndan grew to respect the man from a distance. So now, discussing something obviously painful to him on behalf of Luciya, there was a subtle danger to the man that intimated anyone who cut in his path would be grievously harmed. Ryndan was caught between admiration at such resolve and concern at such immediate reactions to dire situations. Temper- in his experience- was a killer.

"I apologise for enquiring, Bartheleus." The comb started to tease the knots out of his overgrown hair once more, slightly harsher than before, perhaps.

"No, you have a right to as our protectors and guard on the journey from Valgarde to here. There is no harm in knowing, and I feel you should know, Captain. Luciya has found a friend in you that few are privy to and it is important you understand her if you are to help her." The Captain was humbled by such a statement. He had counselled the woman, but only as he would any other man or woman in his care. He nodded his thanks in the mirror, receiving a small berating in response to moving his head mid-cut.

"She had a lover- an exclusive one, and they were in their unorthodox relationship for nearly three years. Her patron paid good money to the House, more than any other companion there made in a month, to have Luciya to herself. Their relationship went beyond mistress and prostitute, evolving into something more complex. It was this woman who introduced Luciya to her mechanical fetish- which as you've seen, Luciya soaked up like a sponge." He paused, inspecting his handiwork atop Ryndan's brunet head. "And then there was an _accident_. A large one. Alone with Luciya in her house, her lover invoked an explosion, killing two people outside the house as well as most of the people next door. At the last moment, Luciya had been pushed to safety by the woman, receiving only the scar you see her bear. Out of fear and grief, Luciya left to come here, and I followed. We didn't come north straight away- she needed time to heal, and not just physically. She initially refused treatment and it took to literally holding her down to apply the salve and bandages. She cannot cry out of her left eye, anymore. Eventually she passed her grief and we took the first ship to Valgarde not looking back since. The North has this way of wiping slates clean- you could be a prostitute, a sinner, a criminal, a pirate, a deserter or any number of things, but when you step off of that boat- your identity is your own to make. And so we made ours anew."

They sat in silence, the only sound of scissors trimming hair- each snip ringing loud in his elven ears- alongside his own heartbeat as he contemplated the pain that woman hid so well.

"I am glad you trusted me enough to confide in me, Bartheleus."

"As am I, I know you won't abuse this information. You can look past her profession to see the broken woman beneath." Ryndan's face fell. He wish he could say he solely saw Luciya on her own, but several times in his thoughts did the fact that she was a prostitute rose bidden in his mind in front of her, a blunt reminder that she sold herself willingly, clashing with his Light-orientated ideals. Frequently he had to remind himself not to judge her- yet he found that he didn't possess this problem with the man currently trimming his hair.

"There we are- much tidier and more professional looking," the man exclaimed, proud of his work. Admiring his new look in the mirror, Ryndan was pleasantly surprised. No longer was it a partially-brushed mess in the morning before drills. Now it was neatly combed to one side, granting an air of sophistication Ryndan wasn't aware he possessed. Standing, he thanked him. Reaching for his coin purse to pay, Bartheleus waved him off.

"No pay necessary, call it a thank you from me. Without whatever you discussed with Luciya on the trail, she wouldn't be back to her normal self. So it is my gratitude you should be receiving." He bowed low, making Ryndan feel uncomfortable.

"Let us consider ourselves equal then," Ryndan held out his hand, taking Bartheleus by no doubt pleasant surprise. Offering a grin, the taller, darker elf clasped the Captain's hand, sealing their new found friendship.

Later, exiting the bathhouse clean, Ryndan's new friend asked with an unusually meek voice, "My reputation does not bother you? Most refuse to associate with me with the knowledge I used sell myself- and with men also." Pausing in his step, Ryndan turned to the night elf, regarding him amusingly. Issuing a great laugh, Ryndan chided him.

"Sir, let me assure you, that is one of the farthest things that could disturb me, or do you forget I hail from Silvermoon where such things are not uncommon?"

* * *

_Day Two at New Agamand, Four Days since leaving the Crusade._

"I say we lure one away at a time and then dive in for the big one," Lynara suggested. Not a bad plan, in my opinion, _not_ that I'd tell her that.

"No, mon- we must go in for a queek and eezy kill- straight to de hed," Zul'khar inevitably argued. A terrible plan, in my opinion- which I _will_ be telling him.

"That's a stupid idea, troll, his death will surely alert all of those around him to our presence- _then_ how do you propose we get the blood, hmm? Pick them off one by one I say!" she answered back, her voice harsh and impatient. Best be careful or she might upset her pretty blonde hair, I thought.

"I ain't takin' no ordahs from no preest-"

"Shut eet, boat o' choo, I am tryin' to form-ulate a plan," a third person entered the fray. Balija, the _other_ troll in our hodgepodge of a group.

"Can I make a suggestion?" I asked for the second time, my first lost in the elf and troll's minor fray to my far right, only the leader heard me this time however.

"No- hush tiny one, let da fightas han-del dis," Balija chastised, turning away from me again.

"Well, it's really simple, I promise," I pressed, the need for it becoming more and more urgent. I received a very irritated look from my blue-skinned leader as she looked back at me.

"What iz it? Can you not see we are beezy tryin' to get choor blood, eh?"

"No, I appreciate that," I pointed just a ways ahead of us, "it's just that there's a Vrykul somewhat headed our way and I thought you should- oh wait, never mind, Gresh'na's on it."

We all watched on as the fearless orc marched a few feet away, dangerously swinging her axe in a trajectory with a gruesome landing, us not even having noticed that she had left her post. Our hideout was hidden by a few sparsely placed trees and a large boulder, but other than that we had been sitting here for the better part of half an hour debating the best course of action. Seemingly Gresh'na grew impatient with the bickering and didn't stop in her tyrade to return to us. Scrambling up with the other three we followed quickly, keeping close to see her but far enough that she was the first thing the large men and women went for. Balija moved forward to stand nearer her, the two polished maces that normally swung at her hips now occupying her tri-fingered hands, ominously engulfed in fire and power.

Being somewhat the weakest of the group, or at least by looks, Zul'khar, Lynara and I stayed at the back. I had to confess, I was extremely bewildered about how I ended up with these four.

Mort and I had arrived yesterday at the settlement 'New Agamand'. From a distance early in the morning, tall sharp spires had arisen from the low-lying mists, seeming far more intimidating than it actually was up close. Upon entering the town a feeling of revulsion had overcome me. The ground had been mud drenched and slippy; any paving down was negligible compared to the stone paths of Valgarde-which as my time here grew I found myself missing sorely. People milled around in torn clothing, carrying crates of rotted goods judging by the leaking contents and skinless horses walked around, their bones grossly visible beneath their barding. The architecture certainly drew one's attention, but even so, it wasn't the most daunting thing in the town- it was the large glass canisters filled with green ooze spread around the place that sent a chill down my spine.

"That's the plague?" I'd whispered to Mort, slowly dredging our way into the town centre as we passed one of these 'plague wagons'. It was a large wooden structure on wheels had numerous tubes and pipes exiting it, the whole thing chugging like it may explode at any given second.

"The most current strain, probably," he'd replied. "There's a handy Vrykul village north ripe for testing, you see." Even Mort regarded them with distinct distaste, a look on his face betraying his hatred for it, possibly more so than death knights. We had walked by a large pit filled with The-Light-knew-what, but presumably apothecaries stood around it with their apparatus and notebooks, watching it intently, ghastly mutterings heard under their breath. I didn't want to look into the pit, I heard the sickly bubbling, the stuff sounding like it wanted to violently disgorge itself from out of its crude containment whereby my response to that was to shuffle away from it as soon as possible, thank you very much. Safely out of view, we approached the inn, Mort granting us two rooms out of his own pocket (like I'd have it any other way) before beginning to sit tight in this ooze-hole for however long.

Shortly thereafter I was introduced to one 'Chief Plaguebringer Harris'. A tall man (or must have been in his previous life), he towered over Mort and I wearing something akin to noble finery – in mourning black naturally- with mismatching, bug-eyed creepy leather _mask_ complete with two small barrels acting as a mouthpiece _._ And since meeting this…'man', my life spiralled out of control once more. Introduced, without my permission, as a budding young alchemist by my _dear Baron_ , Harris nearly jumped on me with welcoming to 'the cause'. Pretending to be the nervous creature we had deigned my new persona to be, I mumbled my thanks and nodded meekly. Mort's theory behind this was 'the less I say, the more they do', so my mouth stayed shut. Personally I think it was a ploy just to keep me quiet after all the grief I gave him on the journey here.

"We've been spraying the formula down at the Vrykul village of Halgrind for weeks now and they just won't drop dead!" the 'Chief' had explained. Lowering his tone, he had thrown one long, skeletal arm over my shoulders and leaned in a bit too close. "Let's face it, girl, by now our Plague has been exposed to humans, dwarves, dogs, livestock…you name it. As our strains adapt to their hosts, more impurities get thrown in the mix. What we need is a strain made custom for the Vrykul's biology."

Quietly going along with his words, I agreed and umm'd and ahh'd where necessary to keep his attention all the while silently giving thanks that I couldn't smell his breath, I had a feeling it would be _putrid_ without the mask.

"So, Halgrind's chieftain fled the town after we took it over; you'll find him west of here according to our intel. As a patriarch of the Dragonflayer clan, his blood is ideal, wouldn't you say?" Harris finished with a maniacal toothy grin. Nodding my compliance, I walked away with my first task, an overall feeling of ill and a group of oddballs claiming to be my protection seeing as I was a 'poor defenceless woman'.

As Mort predicted, the Forsaken were unconcerned about my appearance, however, the group of four who had jumped at the chance to escort me for 'blood retrieval' where less than convinced. I stared at the 'people' in front of me, not entirely sure if I was hallucinating or not such was the oddity of the mix. There was a blood elf- tall, lean and snobbish looking, that much I could identify. She had a look of constant derision on her pointed face, with sharp features to match. She scrutinised me much the way I did her. Her dress was pristine white, a high black neck to her chin and a matching black stole falling straight to her knees with a long blonde tail hanging over her flat chest. If you asked me, she belonged in a high-class ball rather than a trek across the frozen fjords. How impractical…

The others were…less identifiable to me. Mort whispered that the two blue-skinned things were trolls, hailing from the Durotar deserts, whereas the tall- what I took to be a man at first- green muscled giant was an orc. The female 'troll' stepped forward, offering a three-fingered hand. I tried not to stare too much as I shook it, the sensation of such thick fingers on my person being rather odd.

"Hey der, we be de Durotah Defendas, we'll be es-cortin' ya on yar quest." Mustering what grace I could to thank them, I couldn't _not_ stare at her attire. Bright orange and red armour gave the overall impression of her being on fire; however a contrasting spout of dark blue hair sticking out of her scalp in sharp vertical fashion clashed wonderfully with it. Up close, despite her tightly drawn face and two hand-length tusks, she seemed friendly enough even if her strangely glowing maces resting at her waist spoke a different impression. She introduced herself as Balija, leader of their 'guild', with her twin brother Zul'khar being second in command. I still don't have my head around that quite yet. Comparing the two twins I couldn't find much to relate them barring skin colour and race. Where Balija stood straight and tall, an air of ferocity about her, her sibling rather went in the opposite direction.

Slumped, dull-eyed, splay-tusked and wearing a _dress_ , he regarded me with a goofy smile, a tuft of bright _pink_ hair very distracting atop his towering form. Strapped across his back were two strange looking wooden items that I couldn't even begin to fathom as to their purpose. Cautiously I shook hands with him too, the brown leather gloves no doubt tailor made for his unique limbs separating me from that weird feeling I'd had from Balija. I had to say, his nose was _very_ impressive- I bet that was fun when he sneezed- _if_ he sneezed.

The last in the group was a very silent, very overbearing, heavily built creature with such green skin she could almost match Terowin in the sickly-looking department. I sent a nod in her direction, receiving a terse one back, before she returned to staring at something in the far distance, arms crossed, one black pony tail donning her marvellously bald head and angled face. I figured I didn't want to be on the receiving end of the spiked and grizzly looking ax she bore on her toned back. Even beneath her tight armour I could see her individual muscles bursting to get out.

_What_ had I gotten myself into?

Following this group out of New Agamand, not far from where Mort and I had previously travelled only recently into a pack of violent Vrykul was making me currently question the advantages of this plan and if it was really worth it. Deciding I should seem defenceless as the weak alchemist I was, Mort had barred armour and weapons for me, instead he had thrown a plain travelling robe and cloak at me from his own pack, telling me to redress before we had entered the Forsaken town. It was such a nuisance- I kept tripping on the hem, the sleeves were too long and the cloak kept blowing upwards and into my face depending on how the wind felt.

I hated every minute of this. And I decided Mort was going to meet his true death upon my return to New Agamand, whether he liked it or not.

The walk out here had only taken two hours or so, but we had postponed it from yesterday after reports of a 'Storm Giant' was in the area and the group had decided not to risk running into it- whatever it was. So early this morning, waiting for them to rouse from their sleep, I had poured over my journal and alchemy notes in an attempt to remind my brain about any of it. Safe to say, I had received _nothing_ in response. Mort had seen us off, the news that I had remembered nothing crossing his face in small emotions of disappointment despite his best efforts to conceal it. Even though I had been forced to come here with no regard to my own wishes, I still felt a bit guilty about not being able to do what he wanted me to.

Small talk between us had been made on the journey- Balija asking about my background, me making something up about studying in Brill before coming out here. They seemed to buy it for the most part, or at least I think they did. No one questioned me further though Lynara did make noises of contempt and disbelief at odd times. I ignored her, thinking that I had put up with Terowin, so I could certainly put up with her snobby attitude.

And then we had arrived at the Vrykul camp, arguing over the best course of action until Gresh'na decided to take charge.

"She's quite deadly with that ax, isn't she?" I noted to the two companions either side of me. The priestess 'humphed' her agreement, obviously finding it hard to agree with me on any point and Zul'khar- a shaman I had learned, just watched with his jaw hanging low. Balija danced her way around another Vrykul, throwing him into a tree with her weapons, striking hard- the impact causing fire to eat away at his clothing and skin. The screams dulled soon as an overhead swing crushed his skull into the ground. Given an impressed whistle, we slowly followed in their path of destruction, Gresh'na not even pausing as she was charged on her right flank, the body of her opponent crashing to the ground before stilling. And then the chieftain was in our sights. Marked by his grander attire, resting beneath a crude tent, the two female assailants circled their prey like lionesses. Realising the danger he was in, finally seeing the lack of bodyguards around him, the vrykul roared, bearing his own crude long blade, swinging in wide circles, to keep the melee around him at bay. It seemed to be working, neither Balija or Gresh'na could get near him, both jumping back with each swing of his polearm- or at least until an actual _lightning bolt_ struck his back. Looking to my right, I saw the origin of the bolt- Zul'khar, crouched, hands working quickly, summoned more lightning and quickly fired it once more at the target. Following the bolt's trail it shot off into the distance as the large man dodged it having located the source of his next attacker. He got ready to charge at the troll- and then by extension, me and Lynara as well.

Swearing I lifted my accursed robe and went to intercept the incoming blow- the other two were not able to catch him before he launched in our direction- before I was violently pulled back.

"What do you think you're doing, you fool!" Lynara hissed in my ear, dragging me back. I fought her grip, watching too late as the man came within feet of us and melee range of Zul'khar- and then he dropped dead. Highly confused I stared at the body- _hadn't that just been moving_?

"Nicely trown, Gresh'na, might be a new record," Balija walked up towards us, her weapons no longer glowing, resting on either shoulder as she smirked at the corpse. Finally registering his body properly, I saw the orc warrioress' ax embedded deep within his back, the blade more than half way covered. She had _thrown_ that beast of a weapon? Even with all of my strength I doubted _I_ could pull off such a feat.

"Gotcha sa-ringe ready der, alky-meest?" Balija asked of me.

Fumbling with my belt I answered, "yep, right here in my- my...my bag…where are the bags?" Five heads searched the nearby grounds in mirrored confusion. The syringe I needed to withdraw the blood with was in my bag, complete with several stoppered vials for multiple testing purposes, without it, I'd be carrying the blood back in scooped hands- something of which I had _no_ intention of doing, might I add.

"The boulder we were hiding behind, obviously. Why didn't you keep it on you?" Lynara put forth. _Why don't you just zip that mouth of yours, hmm_?

"Because we sat there for ages and I wanted to get comfortable, if it pleases you," I spat, turning on my heel back through the trees. What a bitch- ever since we locked eyes on our first meeting yesterday, sparks have flown and I found I disliked her immensely. The sooner this mission was over and I was rid of her the better. Muttering curses not suitable for a delicate priest's ears, I rounded the boulder- and stopped in my tracks.

"Erm, guys? Are you sure we left the bags here?" I called, not liking the look of the bare ground where we had sat. A quick glance revealed no clues as to their whereabouts. This was _bad._

"Are you sure you're behind the right stone, _Cersae?_ " Lynara chimed in once again, approaching with arms crossed, clearly annoyed at having to wait for anyone, Light forbid. Each step she took was carefully placed, I watched on as she avoided everything as if she were about to stand in manure.

"Yes, your highness, I'm sure this is it," I threw my arm wide, the very imprints where our knees had pressed into the earth visible from earlier. She reached me, nose in the air and inspected the site. Not saying a word- an indication that I took that I was right- she surreptitiously peered around the area. It didn't escape my attention that she was bagless too- _hypocrite_. Heavy footfalls indicated another arrival.

"What iz de hold-up?" Zul'khar asked, joining us, his wooden idols still strapped across his back, clinking in a way I was reminded of windchimes.

"Our bags are missing- this is definitely where we left them, so where did they go?" The three of us started to spread out; _where the hell did they disappear to?_ A sharp cry caught my attention and I turned to see the troll brother pointing southwards.

"Ova der- dem beasts 'ave 'em!" Zul'khar took off into a sprint, spraying mud in his wake leaving me and the prissy one alone.

"Where is he going?!" Lynara voiced my thoughts, watching him run away in an awkward stride.

"Oh you have got to be kidding me," I muttered. He aimed towards a shoveltusk herd currently moving away from our position. Looking beyond the running troll I could see a backpack hanging off of one of the bigger one's front tusk- and the contents were spilling out ungraciously. With my practiced breathing, I sighed heavily.

"Of course, it _would_ be my bag, wouldn't it?"


	24. Omnia Causa Fiunt

_Westguard- Three Days After Arriving._

"Good morning Commander, how did you sleep?" Ryndan asked of his superior whose violet head was currently bent over her paperwork.

"Good morning, Captain," her voice was distracted, no doubt from the letters in front of her. He had received a message from a younger officer that she was looking for him and sought her out straight away, finding her in the cosy tavern. Their time in Westguard had been short so far, but the troops were settling in easy enough, the people perhaps a little bit more laid back than at Valgarde, possibly affording them the luxury of social time beyond meals without imminent threat from attacking Vrykul. Several times he had to tell the troops off for getting too carried away with drink or women. As a general punishment, he sent them out to the front of the keep to gather cannonballs that go awry and far afield. The impropriety died down very quickly after volunteering their services to Ely out front.

"Firesworn I need you to-." Looking up, her gaze flicked to his hair before a smile fought its way onto her face. "-I need you to speak to the quartermaster please on behalf of the Crusade and find out what supplies they can provide our men and how much can be spared, then report back to me, we're finally meeting Captain Adams today and from what I hear, his temper is not too favourable." There was an satirical ' _lucky us'_ that went unspoken in her tone, nearly enticing a chuckle from Ryndan- but he held it in, just.

"Ah, yes, I have heard similar from the innkeeper and Canoneers out the front of the keep, sir. I'm sure he'll give you no problems though."

"Hmm, I don't doubt it. I know how to handle men, and dwarves at that," she pursed her lips before gathering her paperwork from the tavern table, evidently finished. He was not surprised she had to attend to her administration down here in the taproom. The 'bedchambers' in the inn were small and sparse, but warm- only a cot and small trunk being offered. Housing many guests and traders, only the officers took up space in the building, the lesser-ranked soldiers and support setting up their reinforced tents on the far side of the keep- shielding them from most of the sea winds that battered the highly placed settlement. Their first proper day here, Ryndan had stood by the cliff edge admiring the iceberg-infested waters before him. It was a magnificent view also serving as a harsh reminder of their mission here. His long ears were not too fond of the cold, nor was his still-weakened body.

Normally Ryndan refused such privileges as an inn bed, preferring to keep on level ground with his men and women, but this time the Commander ordered him inside for the sake of his health- _"you're not fully healed yet- just rest; the troops won't begrudge you that."_ So tonight, he looked forward to a feather-stuffed mattress and quiet; no wind battering his tent canvas in the dark, just listening to it through his small window instead. A little guilt would flood him whenever he thought of his men out there, but they were all hardy and strong, not to mention well equipped with thick furs and blankets. The few still recovering from the plague-exposure and starvation who are still in serious condition also resided in the inn and filtered out whenever they were fit enough to camp properly. Easy to say that the Argent Crusade were funding the Alliance Expedition pretty heavily in this town.

"We have received word from Commanders Kunz and Faalstav- they are currently stationed in the far east in somewhere called 'Zul'Drak'. I don't know a lot about them, but it sounds distinctly Trollish to me- I don't envy them," Ashwood reported, a small expression of affront crossing her fine features.

"Are things well with them?" Ryndan asked. She merely tightened her mouth in response and quietly checked for any prying ears listening. Dropping her voice, she said, "No, it seems they're having quite a hard time there and will be unlikely to break away anytime soon for the official assault on the Wrathgate. That was at least two contingents we could have used, but they report that they are snowed under, if you'll excuse the pun."

"I have met Commander Kunz, but not Faalstav personally. That sounds like a heavy loss." Ryndan could imagine the giant draenei paladin that had joined their ranks not two years ago and risen quickly. He was a devout man, truly and Ryndan was surprised he was not higher promoted. "Do the Captains Brandon and Rupert not fall under Kunz?" He knew of them from the Plaguelands assaults- both fine men in their own right. Rupert was one of the few Forsaken in the Argent Dawn who probably wasn't up to something underhanded- unlike Mort. An oddity in itself, his devotion seemed to trace back to the original Silver Hand before he was turned. A sad tragedy, he could no longer invoke The Light as he pleased- a thought that terrified Ryndan; to be forcibly cut off from something he was zealously immersed in in his everyday life.

"I believe so- they're in league with the Ebon Blade it seems, who arrived not long after we did. Kunz is a brilliant tactician, even if a little full of himself- _not_ that you'll repeat that to anyone, Captain," she gave him a reproachful look. "But yes, he's definitely going to be missed at the main assault. I might just reward myself with a trophy of war from it to wave in his face once we've overtaken the Wrathgate," she smirked. It did Ryndan good to see his Commander relaxed. The past month at Valgarde must have been hard for her he imagined, losing her sibling on the first landing day but now her subtle humour was seeping its way back into her conversations. She had been withdrawn and tight-lipped, only really speaking to issue orders and commands- like a leading soldier and officer should even when burdened with such grief. He was very glad his own eldest sister was not involved in the Northrend Campaign, simply residing in Eversong with her Blood Knights. He doubted he could go on should he have lost her on this foreign land. The respect he foolishly lost a few nights ago- an incident that he was hurrying to forget despite his dream's best efforts- was quickly gaining back with every talk they had.

She rose from her table with her paperwork and donned her cloak- it was a fancy type, a little too purple for Ryndan's taste, probably something from her homeland of Darnassus judging by the intricacy of the detail on it. He had heard stories from fellow kaldorei about the island, but he had never been there personally. It sounded peaceful- maybe one day, he longed.

Allowing her to take the lead out, he followed her to the door, now able to keep up with her gait, and pulled his hood up over his head, Ashwood doing the same.

"Good idea, wouldn't want to mess up your hair now, would we Captain?"

"With all due respect Commander- _what is wrong with my hair?_ " Several people had given him bemused looks and on one occasion yesterday, Corporal Jason had received a slap to the back of the head for his snickering. Since his new haircut from Bartheleus two days ago, he felt smarter than he had in a while. Living on campaign was not an easy and clean task and having his hair and growing-beard tidied up offered Ryndan a small amount of hygiene and attention to self that he normally could not afford at war. They were all jealous, he decided. He probably did stick out a bit looking neat and prim- not that they didn't attempt to achieve that with their inspections every morning, but sometimes it was just not possible to look _completely_ tidy. A carefully bred lotus in a nest of thorny weeds is how he felt right now.

"Nothing, Captain, it suits you very well."

"Hmm."

"Is that disrespect for your commanding officer?" she spoke over the high winds as they crossed the town centre- the large keep standing tall and strong in front of them, one eyebrow firmly raised against him.

"Never, Commander! I'm cleverer than that!" he shouted back, pulling his thickest cloak around him. Luckily, he was only donning his chain-mail shirt under his black Argent Dawn tabard; his sword-belt secured around his waist otherwise with full armour on his cloak wouldn't offer nearly so much protection for the bulk. Admittedly, his mail shirt felt heavier than it previously did.

"Then the next time you brood over your looks in dispute to something I say it will be 'Hmm _, Sir'_ , is that clear?" They reached the keep, gaining quick admittance under the portcullis and ducked into the entryway before the main courtyard.

"Yes Commander Ashwood, next time I will mope with more respect," he gave her a mocking salute before shooting her a grin and heading off to the keep's storerooms to seek the quartermaster, trying to shake the water from his cloak.

* * *

_New Agamand- Day Four; Same Day._

"Cersae."

"So the Third Law directly corresponds to the theory that the natural materials used are-"

"Cersae…"

"And therefore cannot be redirected or undone in any way, shape or form because that would mean contradiction of-"

" _Cersae!"_

"thus going back to-huh? _What?_ I'm reading, man!" I threw my arms wide indicating the pile of texts surrounding me, pissed off at the intrusion.

"You're wanted downstairs."

"Me? Why?"

"They want to know if you want to join them for mealtime."

"'They'? Oh, ah. Right, one moment." I closed my book and set it to rest on my bed, my journal and quill beside it. I had spent two days holed up in my dingy room studying one of three books on Alchemy that Mort had scavenged from the storerooms of the laboratories. Judging by how dust-covered they were, no one would be missing the tomes any time soon. Exiting, I passed Mort who was hanging through my doorway- until he grabbed my arm and for a moment, I tasted blood.

" _Oi_ , watch it!" I said, receiving a very vivid flashback of a vivacious redhead yelling similar.

"You're not breathing- sort that out then go downstairs," he indicated to my still chest.

"Ah, right. Cheers." Deflating my annoyance, I filled my lungs, feeling them work needlessly at the intrusion of air. With practised focus and management of tensing of the correct muscles I was able to expel the air. Repeating the process over and over until I fell into what I guess could be considered normal rhythmic breathing, I mock-saluted my friend and went downstairs, careful of my overly long hem, Mort creeping back into his room to do whatever it is Undead do in their downtime.

The inn of New Agamand was dark and cold-looking. A pathetic fire flared in the far corner of the kitchens, several benches and tables lined about against the wall making the place resemble a workhouse of old tales than a dining area. A skeletal 'cook' stood near the fire, stirring a cauldron of something gross bubbling inside it, threatening to escape no doubt, and at a middle table- as the only occupants in the room- sat the Durotar Defenders.

"Cersae- ova here!" Zul'khar waved with a lopsided grin. Remembering to breathe I joined them, confident that I was convincing enough to pass as alive

. After the shoveltusk incident two days ago – to which Mort bought me a new bag (bigger and sturdier!)- I had nearly been caught out. When we had reached the beast who hijacked our belongings and strewn them over the fjord plains, I had wanted to break his large tusk off and shove _it_ somewhere painful- but the group, namely Lynara-Queen-of-Pristine- had oh-so-snidely commented on how fit I must be to not be out of breath unlike the two hardened warriors in the group. Realising I had dropped the respiratory practice in my distraction I had to hurriedly pick it back up and pretended to be laboured enough, after all it was no secret that I looked ill and sickly- I shouldn't be able to run that far and fast without grossly straining my system. It'd be nice if I actually behaved as nature intended, that is breathing properly, however being the unnatural abomination that I was I tended to bend a few of nature's rules and even break them in some cases to the point of cheating at life, almost. I did not fall ill, I required no rest, I healed ridiculously fast judging by my previous Vrykul-related injury, had inordinate physical strength and I also did not eat- something that these four in front of me were unaware of.

"Hey, guys. I heard you wanted to see me?" I asked, mainly addressing the trolls seeing as the orc didn't speak (or so I hadn't witnessed anyway) and the elf's general presence bothered me so I didn't care about her.

"Ya mon, wonda'd if ya wanted to jayn us far some food. Eet isn't roasted boar but eet izn't 'alf bad," Zul'khar explained with crumbs spluttering in an impressive trajectory from his wide mouth. How do they manage to eat with those tusks in the way? _Politely_ , that is? His bowl of brown gunk certainly didn't look appetising- especially if it was from the same stuff as the cauldron over there. I was silently glad I didn't have to resort to eating...whatever that was.

"Oh, thank you for the offer, but I'm afraid I ate earlier and not feeling very hungry right now, but thank you for the consideration. I have some work to be doing so I'm going to leave you guys to it." With a nod and a glance at Her Highness, I bit my cheek to save the laugh threatening to spill out at her clear distaste of her evening meal. Oh I wanted to memorise that look for ever; in fact, I wondered if I could induce it somehow-

"Ah, 'old eet dere, alky-meest. We 'ave bizzy-ness to dis-cuss wich ya. Seet down." Ah, right. Well, judging by her tone, Balija gave a there-is-no-other-option-here order so lifting my robes, I chose to sit across from her, beside Gresh'na and away from the priestess at the far end.

"What business?" It had taken me two hours of listening on the trail out to the Vykrul camp two days ago to understand a sentence that these two said, their accents were strange, chant-like and mispronounced on so many levels. My brain struggled to keep up the translating as well as pretending to breathe. Multi-tasking was something I clearly had to work on. I found myself envying the living as they didn't have the problem of thinking about their breathing and everything else at the same time.

"We 'ave been axed to head to ze west to test out de plague. Geeven you are de only alky-meest kwal-ee-fied to do so, you need to come wit us."

" _I_ need to? Why me? There are loads of apothecaries in New Agamand, why not ask-"

"Because they are busy with their own studies and seeing as you are free and available sitting in your room all day, you are perfect," _and_ there she was. Not getting my wish of absolute and definitive silence from her, Lynara had reared her blonde head to butt in. Brilliant.

"I see- and I'm qualified to do what now?"

"Spray de eggs wit plague."

" _Eggs?"_ A vision of me spraying the plague on a frying pan with eggs came to mind- what would _that_ achieve? Better cooking than here, probably...

"Yes, we are to head to de Emba Clutch to da west. You are to record de results that an alky-meest would need and we will pro-tect choo like last time." 'Emba Clutch'? What was that? _What eggs?_

"Right. I…see. When are we set to leave, seeing as I have no choice in this matter?" I asked instead, figuring I'd find out whenever we headed out.

"Tomorra mornin' after de storm has passed tonight." There was a storm? How long had I been in my room? Venting my irritation at my no-choice manipulation once again via a hard, heavy sigh, I agreed and told them I would see them in the morning.

"We'll see you for breakfast, don't be late," Lynara chimed in. Breakfast? Oh no no- I would have to pretend I had slept in and avoid it. The memories of my vomiting at Light's Hope still haunted me whenever food was presented to me and I had no desire to repeat such an event. Ever. No matter how much Mort wanted me to wear this 'living' guise, I was not doing that. Nope. And now they actually needed my alchemy, oh this was not good. I would have to do double the reading tonight that I had planned.

"Sure, see you tomorrow," I replied stiffly, making my way to the exit in my fussy robes.

As I was walking out the room I heard Zul'khar laugh- "Lucky me, eh? Get to go on anuda advencha wid tree of da prettiest ladies I know."

"Only three?" I heard Lynara dispute.

"Ya mon, mah own sista doesn't count-ow!" A hard thump ended that insult.

"Treacherous snake-charma," Balija said. Heading up the stairs the sound of laughter carried up with me, somewhat wrapping around me and creating a warmth the fire in the dining hall could not produce. They weren't bad people, I just wish they weren't so caught up in the plague mess and all that it entailed. While I wasn't so thrilled about the idea of being in Lynara's gracious company again, the others were quite favourable and the lack of deliberate avoidance from my peers certainly felt nice for a change. Luciya, Bart, Fav-no, Fordring and even Ryndan were alright with me, but there was a lingering...condecension about them that they probably weren't aware of. Or if they were, they just hid it very well. Just for a moment, it'd be nice if I could remember this and how I used to be the same before my Turning- welcomed by those around me with open arms; invited to dinner like tonight, wanting to be spoken with just for the sake of my company. Why had I given that up?

"Everything alright?" Mort asked, popping his scraggly-head out of his door. In this light it looked black, unlike the faded auburn colour of days gone by that it used to be. Surprisingly, for a brief moment I missed my thick brown locks.

"I think so- we're heading back out tomorrow to test the plague out on some eggs or something at the Ember Clutch," I mumbled. How does an alchemist record things properly? I'd have to look back at my own notes from before to make them seem plausible… Or maybe I could just forget my notes altogether and report it back verbally…? "Oh the eggs? Yeah, they were plagued alright." Hmm, perhaps not too convincing. Back we go to studying Ephrim's Laws.

"The Ember Clutch? That's drake territory," he said quickly. I threw him a sharp look and decided to beckon him into my room. Locking the door behind me I sat on my pathetically stuffed mattress and bade him to sit down.

"What are drakes?" I inquired.

"Dragons- or something akin to them. Fire-breathing flyin' types-ah cwap" I watched on as Mort's now-dislocated jaw hung loosely from his face.

" _Dragons?!_ Aren't they children's stories?" An almighty 'click' and a bit of wiggling managed to re-insert the offending joint. A large red leather book flicked through in my mind, an elaborate picture of a dragon jumping out at me.

"Certainly not," he stated, face as deadpan as ever. What, no explanation?

"Err…right. Anyway, about the results- what should I report?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you brought me here to figure this plague out. What about the results on these dragon eggs then? If the plague is successful on them, how should I report it? Well? Exaggerate it? Hinder it so their research and testing is slower? What? Help me out here," I pleaded with the man beside me. He simply gave me a long look before stretching and sauntering to the door. Each movement was accompanied by a groan or creak somewhere on his person, almost seeming as unattended as the doors joining each section of this poorly built inn. Turning to look at me again, I received the weird feeling like I was being assessed. His scrutiny sent chills throughout my nerves. I'd received a lot of judgement since my awakening a few weeks ago, but- but it had not disturbed, bothered or unnerved me as much as Mort's lifeless gaze did right now.

"I'll leave that to your discretion, I think. You decide what to do." And then he walked out.

_...Really?_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the title suggests, and as I firmly believe like a doctrine when reading a story, everything- and I mean everything- every little word you read that the author puts on paper is deliberate, never underestimate the tiniest of details :)  
> As always, thank you for your reading time.
> 
> _Omnia Causa Fiunt_ \- Everything happens for a reason.


	25. The New Plague

_Five Days after arriving at New Agamand._

"Just stay still!" Lynara hissed. Tenderly, I'll reluctantly admit, she was using some blasted healing spell to deal with Balija's wounds. Despite her front as an iron-willed leader, the troll was a bit of a crybaby when it came to being burnt. Or scorched. Or toast, as it nearly became. For all she held her tongue at Lynara's gentle ministrations, her squirming was doing all the talking about her pain.

Our venture into the Ember Clutch had been…slightly successful. I had felt a little uneasy about the cask of plague resting across my back all day, a specially made 'spraying tool' attached to the container for application. It had moved as liquid does in motion while walking, the weight slowly sloshing about on my back with each step. No one had offered to take it from me since we had left New Agamand that morning- I didn't blame them, who among the living would willingly touch something that could theoretically liquefy them instantly? I had to keep my hand away from the trigger pull while carrying it, as when it had been demonstrated to me this morning by 'Plaguebringer Tillinghast', the trigger had proved to be a little loose and thus sensitive to touch. Deciding I'd rather not coat my companions and bodyguards in it, I had held firmly onto the barrel and handle of the contraption.

This plague canister that I had been assigned at New Agamand was now thoroughly empty and the spray-nozzle broken in two. Albeit, due to the clumsiness of Zul'khar combined with his dithering I had ended up dumping the whole plague on not only three drake eggs, but very nearly him and me also. The horror I had felt in that minute moment once the physical embodiment of the Society's hard work had nearly fell upon us had been so great as to make my heart beat twice- two loud, large thumps pounding in my chest startling me into crying out. With hindsight, I would have looked like I was starting at the plague being disposed in one go, but only I knew that it was the jumpstart my body nearly underwent out of mortal horror.

Watching the priestess at work, I admired Balija's minor burns, grateful that she and Gresh'na were keeping watch not far from us when the eggs dissolved around the foetuses, revealing fully formed and birth-ready drakes. When Mort had told me they were akin to dragons, he wasn't wrong. Viscously they had leapt from their shells to attack their aggressors, no doubt angry at their gestation being disturbed. Clumsy and wild they had slipped in the puddle of plague, all three now heavily coated in the toxin, resulting in…nothing out of the ordinary to my sight though the stench left a lot to be admired.

Small, razor teeth snapping and puffed up in possibly an effort to barbeque us, I had stumbled over Zul'khar and his infernal robe, landing us both on the burnt earth ready to be these babies' first meal- until our help had arrived. Slaughtering them quickly, the shaman and warrioress had saved us, Lynara catching us up from her position in the back of the group, near the edge of the forest. As resident healer and only source of wound-tending we had, it was decided she be kept the safest at the back.

Zul'khar had received a thorough telling off from his twin, while I worked up the courage to don heavy-hide gloves to deal with the whelplings. Their parents were nowhere in sight, the perpetually burning forest creating a veil of smoke over it preventing any natural light filtering through; determined to live on by its own source of heat only. Screeching roars had been heard in the far distance and other eggs nearby were starting to wobble dangerously. Annoyed at the loss of the plague in its entirety, I had taken off my cloak to wrap around the three small corpses and said bundle now sat a few feet away in a drenched, makeshift sack. I'd look at them later, when everyone had fallen asleep. It had taken us most of the day to travel there and about two hours before sunset when we made to go in, perform the deed and come out- only that had fallen flat on its face.

Now seven specimen's short of the desired amount for testing, we had to make the long trek back tomorrow to New Agamand with less-than-brilliant results, though some of me didn't wonder if that wasn't a good thing. Even so, I didn't like leaving something so unfinished in this manner.

"You're next." Looking across the fire, I saw Lynara's glowing green eyes staring back at me, her face ominously flickering with the shadows that only a campfire can bring. Begrudgingly I admired the fact that her light-blonde hair haloed around her face a bit _too_ conveniently.

"I'm fine, I didn't get hurt-"

"You were next to the plague when it spilled everywhere- nicely done by the way- and Zul'khar is exhibiting chest pains. You're next, no arguments." Striding over to me, I struggled to think of an excuse to get out of this. I couldn't let this happen, the dull headache I had suffered being so nearby while she healed the others had nearly subsided. Much like Ryndan's burst of Light in the Catacombs all that time ago, being in such proximity to its workings was painful still. However, mercifully it wasn't in as large a burst as the Captain's own example of power, instead small and gentle waves of healing as she inspected the damage after each invocation.

"No, honestly, I am well and about the plague-"

"Be quiet, take off your robe," she ordered, fussing over me.

" _What?!"_

"Off, now. Or do I have to force it off? I can and will if I must." She insisted, brooking no argument. I searched for help- Gresh'na was out gathering firewood and no doubt keeping watch, as she was keen and prone to doing. Balija was now resting on her mat a little a ways and her twin brother was snoring loudly next to her, a soft wheeze evident in his breathing. On my own, _as usual._

"I don't want to. I'm fine as you can see." Crossing my arms in defiance I watched nervously as she raised on long eyebrow and looked entirely unconvinced. She wouldn't seriously force me, right?

"You don't have to hide it from me- I know your 'secret'," she didn't even lower her voice, simple sorted out the wrinkles in her smoke-marked white robe. I gaped.

"M-my _what_ now?"

"Your secret, though The Light knows why you bother hiding it- that you're Forsaken? Don't deny it," she held up a hand halting my protest. "I can _smell_ it on you," she stated distastefully and not without lifting her nose in disgust. She thinks I'm…?

"Oh, well, I – didn't…that is…erm…" Why didn't Mort just think of that? An albino blood elf … by The Light, _that man_!

"Cersae, I'm a priest, I am _highly_ sensitive to all things unholy and Anar'alah, _yours_ is one unholy stench. I've been around a lot of Forsaken but yours is just unsettling." As much as I wanted- and was going to go along with this- I didn't appreciate the insults.

"I apologise for offending your senses, oh holy one," I said stiffly. She held out her hand.

"Give me your robe."

"Why? If I'm Forsaken then I'm not going to be affected by the plague am I?" I challenged.

"I'm not so sure about that- they want it to destroy Scourge, don't they? Aren't you essentially the same make-up?" A…very valid point I had not considered before.

"I- I suppose so."

"There it is, so I need to see if there's anything wrong with you and also you have a hole in your robe, so give it to me. I cannot abide wrecked clothing." I once again eyed her marked dress but said nothing. This was the nicest she had been in the few days I had known her and I did not intend to spoil it. Decidedly, I removed the feeble brown garment and handed it to her, the woman retrieving a needle and thread from somewhere on her person.

Sitting in silence for a small while, dressed only in my grey woollen shirt and frail leggings, I stared into the fire, Lynara softly singing a hymn of rejoicing- a typical song for any spring celebration, I believe. She threaded very well by firelight, the sky overhead cast and dark- no stars tonight. The light of the Ember Clutch lay behind us, a near-hour's walk from our camp. Luckily, I doubted rain would grace us with its presence tonight, leaving a dry night for the fitful sleepers.

"All done- looks like a claw slash, I wouldn't be surprised if you had a corresponding wound to go with this at your waist," she looked pointedly at said spot on my body as if willing the wound to show itself. Grumbling I knelt and lifted my shirt a way up, revealing …nothing.

"Hmm, there should be something judging by the depth of this tear, and their claws didn't look that dull… still at least I have confirmed your race, that explains your ghastly figure some. I would hate for someone alive to look as wretched as you."

"Thanks," I muttered in deference to the mending of my shirt and her not-so-hidden verbal offense. Throwing the robe back over my head, I welcomed the comfortable weight that such a garment provided with all of its thickness and warmth.

"Much better. My talent is sorely wasted, I tell you," she sighed heavily.

"Do they- the others- know?" I asked meekly. Much like the feeling in Valgarde when Luciya and Favian-Fordring learned how I felt no emotion, a pit in my stomach formed at the idea of the rest of our party knowing I had purposely lied to them, even if I was covering that lie with another lie.

"I doubt it. Gresh'na might but she won't say anything, it's her forte to remain silent as you've seen. Balija is trying hard just to keep our small guild of four afloat and make a name for it whereas Zul'khar is too busy cocking things up and is in his own little world to pay attention to anyone else. Thankfully they're not privy to your _unique_ aura, they haven't been around the Forsaken as much as I," she said matter-of-factly. I was surprised she was even speaking to me this much. I would be lying if I didn't feel a wave of relief filter through me briefly at her assumptions.

"Why are you with them anyway? It doesn't really fit your…style," I asked, poking at our dying fire with a stray stick. She simply regarded me.

"'My style'?"

"Yes- you're quite, well, prissy. They're… _not_." I thought back to how savagely Zul'khar ate his meat or Gresh'na walked around in blood-spattered clothing, or even Balija's barbaric way of killing something. "You just seem like you'd prefer to be wearing fine, expensive clothes sipping wine rather than trudging around in the mud, is all," I indicated to her own fancy garment, her black stole a still hanging straight and true, not out of place despite the grief it underwent through today's mission and its inferno location. I had observed each one of them for a while on our journey today with bored interest. Lynara was very cautious about where she stood, what she became involved in as well as being highly opinionated about everything from her food to what style her hair was worn in that day. Loudly she had protested at some of the more dirt-ridden paths we had wanted to take today insisting her flimsy shoes would get wet and she would catch a cold and then where would that leave them? Despite Balija claiming leadership of the odd band, Lynara tended to dictate most of it to her whims.

"I like them," she replied simply. I waited for her to elaborate but nothing came.

"That's it?"

"Yes."

Finding there was little I could do to coax it out of her, I fell silent. Stubborn in a similar sense to Luciya, I found that she would only say something if she wanted to, not because she would be tricked or goaded into it much to my displeasure. Cunning people like her tended to be smart enough to avoid the tricky questions and I disliked that immensely, it was like she could see exactly where I was trying to lead her and refused to follow, simple throwing my off track instead.

"And you? What brings you to the murky lands that is the South of Northrend?"

"I-" I started. What do I say? "I am involved with the plague development," I decided on, expressing an ambiguity that could no doubt match Bart or Ryndan, I thought proudly.

"I see." Why did she have to sound so unimpressed?

"Do you perhaps not agree with the plague?" I ventured.

"I am unconcerned by it. If it kills the Scourge then I support it wholeheartedly. I will just leave it to those in the know. It has little to do with me." Her whole stature suddenly reminded me of that Ashwood woman the night I was excommunicated from the Argent Crusade. The only-my-opinion-matters-and-there's-nothing-you-ca n-do-to-change-it attitude was evident not only in her strong voice but also in her straight, unwavering posture and general facial expression. This woman exuberated confidence that I had no hope of achieving, and there was something admirable about that- no matter how much her manner annoyed me.

Deciding to take a risk, I stood on thin fjord ice and asked, "suppose it's for more than the Scourge. Suppose it's made to be effective against any enemy? Any _living_ enemy. Would you still support it then?"

"Suppose it is able to kill anyone. Suppose the Society take it further than the Scourge. Suppose earthroot grows out of your nostrils and you fall up into the sky," she obscurely countered without even seeming surprised at my line of questioning.

"Does that not concern you? The idea that the Forsaken could just up and use this on whomever they wanted?"

"I am just one person, a mere priest, Cersae. Whatever it is I feel there would be little I could do to change it against a force so large as the Apothecary Society."

"Do you really believe that?" I asked cynically. She wouldn't just lay down like that, would she? It seemed extremely uncharacteristic for her royal prissiness.

"Do you?" She stood up and stretched up high, giving an unfeminine groan as she did, her actions granted me the chance to notice how long her body truly was from this angle. Straight and flat on all visible planes there was very little womanly curving offered. I supposed I looked like that too with proper weight gain on my poor skeleton such was our biology- having noticed similar thin and lean frames from some of the elven woman amongst the Crusade.

Nodding me a goodnight she went away to lay down, our conversation finished. What did she mean by that –'Do you?' Did she really believe that she couldn't do anything? Surely not, though. She was stubborn enough to tell us what to do so surely she could get her point across with enough force or cunning, even in her case.

Watching the three sleeping bodies and sat in a dull silence, the fjords offering little to aid my loneliness. After a small while, the northern wilderness returned Gresh'na to us, firewood in tow before she divested of most of her armour and curled up under her rough furskin for warmth without any word to me. Clearly I was on watch tonight. Left alone to my thoughts I kept an ear out for any intruders, the nocturnal creatures of the fjords my only company. Stiff and bored being left to my own devices I tended to the fire for a while, it content to sizzle out through the night into a puff of smoke. I felt like it- all passion and burning to begin with but as time here drew on I felt myself dwindling and fading into the surroundings, nothing keeping me stoked or being tended to. I envied these four. For all their disorganisation and mish-mash when it came to executing plans, they were a lively bunch who trusted each other to watch their backs. The Crusade was similar, not wanting to leave anyone behind where possible- taking sometimes fatal risks to aid a fallen comrade. We Death Knights certainly held no such philosophies. If you fall behind, you are left there to rot or get back up, no one to help you.

I found a small comfort in the idea, relying on nobody but oneself. Others can disappoint or betray you, letting someone else rid of your presence without even trying to stall- whereas you cannot betray yourself. For all these four were 'protecting' me, they would leave me behind also. I decided not to care about it, once this business was over I could go back to finding Edmund. He had weighed heavily on my mind the first couple of days after leaving the Crusade, floating in and out of my lucid thoughts, his mouth moving but the words not reaching my senses. How I longed to hear him again, his deep voice rising and falling with excitement and disappointment when explaining alchemic results, or describing the properties of a new herb to come across my studies. How I loved listening to him explain _Manigut's Six Spagyric Laws_ or _Seraphime's Principle_ , _Ephraim's Laws_ or even _Philpott's Transmutation Equations_. With a fondness, I recalled our late hours at night hunched over an old book, squinting in the poor light to discover something alchemically new. How patiently he explained them to me! He likened it to cooking sometimes despite knowing I was useless at such things!

A loud snore snapped me from my thoughts and I realised I was smiling. I saw the shadowy outline of Zul'khar, probably, shift and turn on his mat, settling back again into peace. Content he was staying asleep my eyes drifted around what little scenery I could see this night- next to nothing. And then my eyes fell upon the quarry of today's efforts. Grimacing I shifted over to the sodden thick cloak holding the encased slaughtered. I needed to decide what I was going to report back about the effects of the plague. They took nearly three times what I should have sprayed on them so I prepared myself for some extra-gruesome findings. Bucking up the courage to observe the effects of the toxin I donned my thick-hide gloves and untied the knot, allowing the blanket to fall away.

What I saw was definitely _not_ what I expected.

"Oh this is not good."

* * *

_The Next Day._

"What?! No, this can't be right. _CURSES!_ "

I watched as Tillinghast marched around in a stomping circle, clearly displeased with the results of the testing. Upon our return to New Agamand earlier today I alone had taken the 'specimens' straight to the Plaguebringer who charged us with this task. My uncertainty of what to report back to him cleared up quite quickly upon last night's revelations and turned out to be for the better, as the current temper tantrum in front of me was demonstrating.

"This batch of the plague doesn't seem to have had any real effect on the proto-whelps at all other than to make them glow green!" He shouted, to no one in particular. There were no other people near us as this fit of his kicked off, others looking at it from a far (and safe) distance or just ignoring him completely. I stayed decidedly quiet as he worked through this. With the lack of real results, the plague development was now held back and luckily it was bad enough that he didn't care about only dumping it on three whelplings instead of ten.

"My dream of using the plague upon anything we come into contact with seems to have gone up in smoke! Damnable creatures! It's not like they had a vaccine or immunity against the plague- they weren't even freshly hatched!" He ranted. Quite happy with my work I slowly stepped backwards in an effort to get away while he dealt with his failure- before my arm was roughly grabbed.

"Wait! That gives me an idea! What if it didn't kill the whelps because it was sprayed on the outside of their eggs?!" His rotted face was leaning in quite close, a twisted grin deforming his expression further. I mentally berated myself for not thinking of that- of course the eggs would have provided protection, possibly even absorbed some of it- who knew what the shells were made of? _Stupid!_ It was too late to change my story now, if he thought I had sprayed them on directly in the first place then his excitement would deflate immediately.

"We have to get the plague inside of them…but how, let me think." Letting me go he started mumbling again to himself one skeletal finger tapping his chin and waving around in the air at each passing idea he came up with. Bemused and slightly disturbed I watched on, hoping he couldn't come up with anything now realising my faux pas in regards to

"I know! We'll immerse some meat into the plague solution and feed it to them directly! You, girl! Take the plagued meat to the Ember Clutch and get them to eat it- then we'll see the proper results!" He spoke fast and sloppily, his decaying features unable to keep up with his flurry of talking. "Of course the younger ones don't have as much mass to absorb it…still thinking too small…Yes! That's it! Let's get one of the proto-drakes flying overhead to come down and eat it! That'll give us true results!" he laughed maniacally, evidently pleased with his progress. Cackling away he dismissed me to come back once he had soaked the meat. It wasn't long until I found Mort skulking about the place.

"Successful venture?" He questioned, not even a 'hello', 'how are you' or 'good to see you came back alive from the fiery deathtrap'.

"I think so, but I think I messed up the results report," I told him consciously. Concern folding his face, he pulled me away from the 'town centre' away from prying eyes or ears.

"Explain."

"Well, the results weren't great- they just turned the drakes green, but I should have thought more carefully about it. I thought that this was a huge setback for them but from an alchemist's point of view of course a negative result is still a result, isn't it?" I explained. He nodded sternly, urging me to continue. "Now he's on a different track knowing that the plague isn't effective on living creatures- or drakes anyway. Why is he so concerned about the drakes in the first place though?"

"Because most likely anything that can kill a hardy and thick-skinned drake with little effort will topple something like a tauren effortlessly, I'd reckon. We're quite cunning like that I'm afraid."

"But why a tauren? I thought they were all a part of the same Horde?"

"Aye, you're right, but you and I know they want this plague to be capable of killing _anything_. The bigger your target is, the more you'll need or the deadlier it'll have to be. It just wouldn't surprise me that they're covering all potential bases, including drakes too," he said grimly.

"That's…rather harsh. Um, but yeah, if I had thought about lying about it being successful then he would go on thinking that the plague worked and a nullified version would be implemented, right?" I was so chagrined I hadn't thought of this last night with all the time I had. I was so elated that at first glance there was nothing wrong with the drakes, but my alchemic knowledge was near non-existent so for all I could report there was nothing, other apothecaries would comment on something I had missed as a novice.

"No, I'm afraid they'd do multiple testing on other targets to make sure. One set of results isn't enough to go on- you need definitive proof before implanting something as expensive as this damnable plague."

"So…I couldn't do anything about it either way then?"

"Not directly, no."

"Then- then why did you say I had to alter the results? You said it was down to me to make the right choice!" I cried exasperatedly at him, he didn't look surprised at my outburst much to my flaring anger.

"I wanted to see what you would do, where your loyalties and morals lay," he said deadpanned.

"Are you _serious_? Mort, I am getting so _sick_ of your toying with me- if you want me to do something, just tell me! I am not in the mind for any of your games!"

"I had to make sure. You've not been the same since you were turned and I didn't know if I could trust you with this yet."

I stared at this man I dared to call friend. This was Mort, my mentor, my guide and only family I knew of. What few memories I recalled before my Turning- he was there with Edmund, laughing and joking, teasing and teaching. And now that same man was saying he didn't trust me. My thoughts last night dwelled on self-independence without relying on anyone and now I saw that anyone also included the one person I thought was looking out for me. In one moment my world became less shades of grey and more black and white.

"You should rest up, it seems you have to head back out, do you not? I left a couple more books that I found in your room, take some time to read them carefully to see if you can't remember anything yet," he finished, stalking away with his head held high.

Later, sitting on my bed at night I picked up one of the new residents in my little hole of a room. The cover was unnamed and unmarked, the binding familiar and comforting in my hands and opened the pages. Come early morning I had made the decision not to tell Mort that not only had I read and remembered this book from before, but also combined with my fresher memories of Edmund's alchemic teachings on the trail I had recalled my alchemy to the point of contradicting the book's theories and making sense of my journal notes wholly and clearly.

I was only going to let myself be used for so long, it was time to take charge of this by myself.

* * *


	26. Professional Ethics

_One week after arriving at Westguard._

"The Forsaken? So close to the Keep?"

"Aye, one of my scouts has reported back some suspicious activity by the Forsaken to the south. It looks like they're up to no good at the Vykrul village known as Halgrind," Captain Adams spat. His temper was as bad as legend went. Short in stature and patience, the dwarven leader of Westguard was currently pacing up and down his office atop the fortress, angered by the newly arrived report.

"What kind of no good?" Commander Ashwood prodded gently. Sitting with one leg over the other, her calloused hands rested in her lap and with an intently attentive look upon her face; she was looking ever the gentile lady of a court.

"Reports say it's some kind of poison, and I donnae like t'idea o' them handlin' summat like tha' near us," he replied, bushy brow furrowed deeply. Already in the Captain's quarters for an entirely unrelated matter, Ryndan and his superior were currently present in revelation of some disturbing news. Throwing a discreet look to the woman beside him, Ryndan watched as she kept her face straight and put on a highly convincing act of knowing nothing about the news, something the blood elf was going to also do without orders to the contrary. The Commander gave a dramatic intake of breath and clasped her hands together in girlish excitement.

"Well Captain, we'll investigate for you. On behalf of the Argent Crusade, I offer our services to get to the bottom of this matter as your men are amidst a vital period for the Expedition-"

"Ain't that the truth," Adams mumbled. Either Ashwood was feigning politeness as being rudely interrupted or she was genuinely unconcerned by it. All Ryndan was aware of was normally interrupting her resulted in not so pleasant outcomes for the disruptee. The stout man heaved a heavy sigh, a waft of bad breath filtering to Ryndan's nose testing his willpower to maintain a cool expression. "I'd appreciate tha', Commander Ashw'id, like ye say, we're up tae the hilt wi' this movin' business an' all the trouble we're havin' doon at the gorge as well." Ryndan frowned, hearing the stories of the chasm not far from their current location.

"It'll be our pleasure, I too understand the pressures of juggling so much at once and I am _very_ impressed by how well you have done with this settlement given its history." Adams beamed at her, revealing yellowed teeth and more bad breath. "We'll bid you good day, Captain, and we shall inform you as soon as we know what is going on," she smiled pleasantly to top off Ryndan's surprise. Wisely deciding to keep his mouth shut, he followed her out of the office and the keep, perturbed by her unusually feminine behaviour.

"Not a word of that gross display to anyone, do you understand, Captain?" her voice carried from in front of him as she strode strong and tall, the soldier now talking instead of the woman.

"Not a word, Ma'am- err, Sir." Leading them to the cliff edge away from the general populace, Ashwood peered out at the setting sun, so far in the distance across the foreign lands and frozen sea, currently in danger of becoming engulfed by an oncoming storm. Standing just behind her, Ryndan also looked to the deceptively placid view.

"Good. Now, you and I are the only ones who know about the plague in New Agamand and I want to keep it that way. Find someone who can lead you to the scout Adams mentioned and find out _what the hell_ is going on. I want to know if that death knight is helping or hindering us and be prepared regardless," she spoke boldly. From a distance, it would appear the two were having a casual talk judging by their relaxed stances, the way the wind blew gently around them, but inside Ryndan was highly disturbed. Deep down he had had some faith that Cersae would stop the plague and not help it, if this truly was the perfected toxin, Ryndan would not know what to do- or to what lengths he may have to take to stop her.

"Yes Sir, I shall ask the quartermaster."

"Very good. Set out first thing, I want those storm clouds out there to pass by before sending you." Feeling he was dismissed, Ryndan made to leave before he was stopped. "And Captain?"

"Yes Sir?" he turned. Now looking directly at him, her unmarked elven face regarded him with a knowing look only an elder can wear effectively.

"Don't let your emotions cloud your actions out there." He paused in reverence to her peculiar request. Understanding her true meaning, the Captain held the words to heart, knowing her to be right.

"Noted."

* * *

"Jerry, I am telling you, this new trap will be the envy of the entire party- just look at it!"

"It's a bit of paper, Luce."

"Ah, not just any bit of paper- a _schematical_ bit of paper."

"You made that up."

"Did not."

"Did to-"

"I did not! Bart- tell her!"

"You made it up, Luciya. It is not a word."

"I- that…It's an engineering term!" the redhead cried, stamping her foot on the floor. Allowing a small smile at her predictable temper, Bart returned to his pile of mending. One of his few honest ways of earning a small wage, he advertised his skills around the settlement, soon bundled with quite the load of laundry to fix. Now sitting at a table in the near-empty inn, sitting with Luciya and Jerry, the man felt an innate peace rarely afforded to him. Deftly his hands threaded needles and stitched quietly, content to listen to the two women across from him currently discussing yet another of Luciya's insane contraptions.

"Look, with the correct explosive technology this baby will improve your hunting to no ends!" Luciya pressed. Bart knew that if Jerry were a man, she would have already bought into her crazy device already without caring about the implications. When it came to her occupation however, Jerry was sharper than the dagger in Bart's boot. The girl knew her passion, all right.

"Luce, I don't want a trap that'll explode on me- I have to carry it around remember! How heavy would it be?" she indicated to the incomprehensible drawings in front of her, measurements and calculations scrawled over it.

"Well, the trap itself wouldn't be too heavy, but the gunpowder you'd need to carry for refilling might weigh a bit…"

"That's hardly practical then, is it? I'm a _hunter_ \- I need to be stealthy to stalk my prey! Clanging this hunk of metal around in the wilderness will alert any and _all_ game to my presence! _Think_ Luce!" Jerry berated her friend. Grumbling, Luciya rolled up her 'schematical' bit of paper.

"It would have worked you know," she mumbled, her inventor's pride now injured and tarnished. If there was one thing to amuse Bart, it was seeing this woman be taken down a notch from the cloud of charisma and persuasion she floated on. Used to getting what she wanted in most capacities, being denied something 'hurt' her whereby the only cure would be to mope and strop about for a while. It didn't last long this time however, he could see her mind working through the tense expression in her amber eyes. With a bright smile she grabbed the girl's arm. "I know! If you didn't have to carry around all the gunpowder then would you use it?"

"What? How would it work without the gunpowder?" Now used to Luciya's idiosyncrasies, Jerry remained undisturbed by the rough handling of her limb.

"Well- say I could ask a mage to imbue it with fire magic instead, you wouldn't need gunpowder then- just a top up every now and then! I've worked with a mage and frost magic before to make a –"

"Don't you dare say 'successful'," Bart interrupted, looking at her from atop his needlework.

_"Bart!"_

"It was a hazard and you nearly broke your neck because you couldn't get out of the ice-covered room for slipping when you set it off in the Valgarde dorms," he recalled the incident with dread. Her whole room from floor to ceiling had sparkled with the frost magic- the burnt out trap evidently spent of all the 'magic' it contained by decorating the place. It had taken two weeks for the room to dry out properly once the ice had melted.

"It worked in theory," she pouted.

"Theories are only theories until practice comes into play. You, however, just didn't calculate enough," he told her.

"Eurgh! You are _no_ help!" She threw him a dirty look to which he smirked back at her. "Anyway- ignore him. Jerry, my dear, would that make it more interesting for you if I could do that?" Bart watched on as the woman gave wide-eyes and a slightly petted lip. He then silently laughed when Jerry not only remained unmoved, but stood her ground.

"Oh, hell no. I don't want a ticking bomb in my bags, thank you very much," Jerry threw up her hands in defence as if to ward her off with her ideas and inventions- not a terrible idea given Luciya's past history with newly thought of machines.

"Oh _Jerry!"_

"Nope, not going to be a part of this. However, mentioning a mage- we had three of them arrive from the Kirin Tor about four weeks ago and one of them is _fine_ ," she dropped her voice to a husky whisper, an odd combination with her girlish voice.

"The Kirin Tor? Out here? Why?" Bart asked of the huntress, attempting to divert the conversation from its dreaded destination.

"I don't know, something to do with the Ember Clutch- it's getting out of control or something. But this guy, he is so good-looking, and I've spoken to him _three times_ already!" Turning her full attention to Luciya, Jerry forgot about Bart and started talking rapidly. Her climbing voice were soon going to reach the peals of excitement only a girl in love could achieve and fearing the conversation was delving into _boys-territory_ , he gathered up his finished work and left the womenfolk to their gossiping.

Returning a small while later found a new face at their table- The Argent Crusade Captain. He looked bewildered among the two, both talking at him with great fervour. For all he may be an excellent militant, the poor man was clearly helpless against the fairer sex and so taking pity, Bart decided to rescue him.

"What are you doing, ganging up on the man?" he asked, sitting beside the fellow. Ryndan shot him a grateful look of exasperation and relaxed visibly.

"We were just telling him we can solve his problem- he can't find the quartermaster to enquire about a scout so Jerry's offered her services," Luciya replied brightly, her smile wide and beautiful. As he always noticed, her mouth never fully widened on her left side and the small pocket of sorrow he held for her throbbed when he saw her marred face.

"Aye, best hunter in the Fjords, me, been going out on the hunting parties for months now and now my way about grandly!" Jerry proudly stated. Her nasal accent was a little hard on delicate ears not used to such country-speech, it had taken Bart sometime after he had met the girl to grow accustomed to it. No doubt, Ryndan would also struggle- if he did, he hid it well.

"I appreciate the offer, we're leaving first thing if that is suitable?" the blood elf asked mannerly. It was easy to see that she was already taken with him; Jerry was impressionable and fleeting in her fancies. At eighteen years old, she would move on to some other pretty face to fawn over, Bart reckoned. He had known her for some time and without fail, upon meeting her again she would always express some newfound love to her friend- Luciya. Having heard the same conversation many times over, Bart had always left it to his female companion to deal with.

"Of course! I just need to tell Miles-" she started to get up.

"Ah, this is a covert journey, we are taking minimal people," Ryndan warned.

"Oh, he's not a person, he's my wolf!" she smiled wide, revealing a perfect set of white teeth.

" _Wolf_? You- you mean that animal I saw in the stables? _He's yours_?" Ryndan looked for clarification of the statement from the rest of the party but he was met with a nod of confirmation from Bart and a half-smile from Luciya.

"Yep, when he feels like it anyway. He's a temperamental old sod, sometimes he travels with me, sometimes he doesn't. Moody so-in-so," Jerry grumbled into her mug, sitting back down.

"Just like his mother?" Bart teased, causing Jerry to slam her tankard on the wooden table hard.

"Hey! I am _not_ temperamental, I am a healthy well-balanced young lady," she stated primly. With striking blonde hair and enviously smooth dark skin and the height of her youth, she certainly looked a picture of health to anyone's eyes.

"If you say so, dear."

"Don't 'dear' me, old man. I do a manlier job than you any day, I'm far from being 'dear'," she huffed at him, causing Bart to chuckle deeply. It was very easy to perceive the girl as a little sister, something Bart never had.

"Manlier perhaps, but both jobs are just as necessary at making an effective camp run. You provide nourishment and food, and I provide a just as vital service. We cannot have our soldiers and taskforce in holey socks, can we?" he said, spreading his hands wide and winning the discussion judging by Jerry's lack of response beyond a dirty look.

"I wear holy socks," Ryndan interjected thoughtfully. After a moment of stunned silence, Luciya asked, "did you just make a joke?" Looking between the three, Ryndan looked bewildered.

"I've been known to. I'm not totally serious, you know," he sat up straighter, shifting uncomfortably now that he was gleaning attention from the entire table.

"I don't get it," Jerry said looking between them, evidently missing the pun much to the adults' amusement.

"It was a play on words dear, you know- like when you tease Bart about his mending skills?" Luciya informed the younger girl, not without a mocking grin either, Bart noticed.

"Oh, I see! Well I'll be _darned_ ," the blonde turned very deliberately to Bart, a wicked grin spreading across her freckled face.

"No, don't you dare start, Jerewyn," the tailor warned with a long finger, his face losing all friendliness in favour of severity.

" _Don't_ call me Jerewyn! It really winds me up!" she stomped, her short-cut hair falling over her face.

"Was that an intentional pun?" Ryndan asked, smirking sideways to the night elf, enjoying the banter.

"What? No, it wasn't."

"Yes it was. Don't let her pull the wool over your eyes, Ryndan. Like Bart, she _suits_ a shorter name better," Luciya butted in a look of devilish gleam in her eyes. Ryndan snorted.

"I see, it was cleverly _folded_ in to her annoyed response. The sentence was strung seamlessly so it was hard to tell," he replied seriously.

"Don't you start too, Ryndan," Bart pleaded with him, defenceless against the oncoming onslaught of teasing.

"I don't know what you mean. I am simply talking with these two lovely women in regards to your profession. I think your humour needs some alterations, my friend," he delivered deadpan. Bart groaned, burying his face deep into his hands.

"Oh _button it_ , Captain. His humour is fine, isn't it old friend? You tailor made it 'specially for us!" Luciya asked gleefully of the poor man.

"I'm hanging on to my sanity by a thread," he mumbled. Luciya banged her palm off the table, whooping with laughter.

"That's the spirit! If you can't beat them, join them!" she cried, still laughing hard. "Now that he's cottoned on, this conversation is going to leave me in stitches!" she said between breaths. This broke Jerry who burst into laughter, unable to contain herself any longer. Both women expressing their merriment so hard caused Ryndan to chuckle aloud and he slapped the man beside him on the shoulder.

"Don't worry, my friend, we respect you enough to poke fun at you, otherwise you'd be asking us to _weave_ the table!" Ryndan told him.

"Did you really just do that?" Bart asked him in exasperation. "I had faith that you at least may stay by my side, Ryndan!"

"I can lace in a few more if you like?" the paladin offered, laughing out heartily at Bart's horrorstruck face. "Was that good?" Ryndan asked of the giggling engineer across from him.

"It was _sew-sew_ , you need to thread it in, rather than say it off the cuff" she managed to say before clutching her stomach tightly in mirth, tears running down her cheek.

"Oh look at his _face_!" Jerry cried, pointing across the table to Bart, narrowly missing two empty dishes. Regarding the three people now laughing at his expense, Bart gave up any hopes of stopping the torrent of mocking.

"I hate you all," he told them.

"Don't worry, we won't loom over you with this for much longer!"

* * *

_Nine days after arriving at New Agamand_

"I'm too busy, Mort, I can't help you out," gathering the last of my textbooks I made to leave the room, only to be stopped by the Undead who brought me here.

"Cers, what's going on with you? You're so distant lately." He regarded me seriously, pretending to actually care about my welfare. Typical.

"I'm doing what you want me to do- trying to remember my alchemy. Now, excuse me, they're expecting me downstairs for some practical work," I made to shove past him but he refused to budge. "Mort, move!"

"Practical work? So soon? Then you must have remembered something, you would tell me if you have, yes?" He drawled, his voice sluggish and grotesque. As of more recently his speech was more slurred, his jaw cooperating less and less in staying in line with the rest of his skull. His once plain face was now beginning to pockmark.

"Yes, Mort. This is simple stuff really, making the base for the plague until we start experimenting properly. I need to make it in a large batch, alright? I haven't remembered anything yet, just what I've made sense of in the textbooks- hence why I need them, now move or I'm in trouble!" I shoved his skeletal shoulder roughly and walked out of the room. I held no qualms about lying to him. Since my awakening I had been manipulated left, right and centre and more often than not, I let it happen out of some misplaced sense of reconciliation. Not this time; now, I was taking control to see to this myself. I wanted this plague to be _my_ project- to solve it to be _my_ accomplishment, nothing more. True enough I was making the base, but unbeknownst to the lead alchemists and Mort, I was using a small batch on my own to advance it.

A part of me- a very small one- felt ashamed to be using these talents for this purpose. A whisper in the back of my mind constantly told me that Edmund did not mentor me in alchemy so I could abuse it by helping the Forsaken. I ignored it, primarily because yes, while I was going to finish their plague, I was going to make it effective against Vrykul and Scourge only. Anyone of any other race should theoretically be unharmed all the while still creating a weapon capable of killing the disease-ridden corpses rising across Northrend. Coming to that decision was easy- I could prove to Mort and Ryndan that there was more than their way of doing things- there was mine. And why shouldn't I do it my way? It was my brain and mind they were looking to implement, not theirs. They wanted me to be their pawn, I was going to rise to Queen instead. However, my initial plans for drawing up such a concoction fell swiftly down the drain given the seeming impossibility of it, but my memories keep thrusting ideas and propositions at me from tomes long since read, assaulting me at all hours disallowing me a chance to think about anything else. The floodgates had opened and I was caught in the torrent. I had to try.

Whispers and hints had found their way to my ears by way of the poorly built walls and I knew they intended to use it at the Wrathgate assault to the north soon- this drew my deadline closer than I'd liked.

Currently, my Horde companions were out of New Agamand, away somewhere to the south-east gathering bones or something. Upon their return, I would be going to the Ember Clutch once again to test out Tillinghast's Plague. However, I wanted to use that time to test my own batch, should I complete it properly.

I had been at it for two days solid- nights included. The base of the plague was simple enough, yet rusty as I was at alchemical practice, my first two batches were unusable and ended up in the dump centred in the town. Slowly but surely it came back to me. Herb-preperation techniques, order of process, the individual instruments and all of their uses, the way I should stir and how materials of cauldron affected my work. Luckily , the Apothecary Society weren't stupid and had figured most of the nitty-gritty out regarding the plague base- all I needed to do was trump their development phase to the point of perfection. By using the precious Vrykul chieftain's blood that I had gathered only last week, I made to move forward with my plan, my notes scattered and incomprehensible to any unfamiliar with alchemy.

Mort had not seen then, nor would I allow him to. I was not going to let him know of my returned recollections.

I had some downtime while the cauldrons would simmer, allowing me the chance to break down a little of Tillinghast's Plague. The meat he had marinated in it as promised was truly poisonous. It hadn't taken long to figure out with some advanced calculations (that had taken me several hours to recall as well as some swearing at the few books I had) that his would without a doubt kill the dragons at the Ember Clutch- and as Mort's logic dictated, most likely anything and everything else also. I couldn't let this field test go ahead- an even more pressurising situation to finalise my own plague before the Durotar Defenders returned. Some not-so-subtle enquiring led me to the knowledge that this strain of the plague was not only being tested on the Ember Clutch drakes, but on the Halgrind Vrykul also. If there was one downfall to the Society Apothecaries- they all wanted glory and gladly boasted about their version of the plague such that if it proved successful, they had initial claim to it. I had secretly tampered with that particular version yesterday, when two apothecaries set out to implement it. It had come back with poor results and one less apothecary, luckily. Sure as to say, Chief Plaguebringer Harris was none too pleased about the situation- he was quick to figure there was a mutation in the plague, though not of its origins.

I had soothed him with promises of Tillinghast's plague that I will be testing in the Ember Clutch before failing it entirely, allowing me still the chance to take my own strain out onto the field. Now all I needed to do was create a perfect one in the next two or three days. If it proved unharmful to the drakes, I would claim it to be Tillinghast's, while telling the man himself it was successful. By putting mine forth in his place, I aimed to push them to re-test on the Vrykul and prove that this was the strain they wanted, all the while preventing them from developing a weapon capable of killing more than the Lich King's minions on Northrend.

Looking to the bubbling sludge in my pot, I only prayed that my mind would not give up or lie to me about what I recalled studying years ago. I only had that to rely on, the Undeads' own library poor and incomplete.

No pressure, I told myself, no pressure.

* * *


	27. Insight

_Nine Days after arriving at Westguard._

They were melting; age-old rotted skin forcibly peeling from their decaying skeletons- it seemed almost as if an unseen whip were flaying them where they stood. The smell was vomit-inducing and sickening, catching at the back of the throat and nauseating the senses, but their screaming was worse. Boils rapidly grew and burst all over their bodies, the acidic pus adding to their plight and ultimate deaths. Despite the horrors inflicted on them, miraculously some apothecaries could still move, attempting to drag themselves away from their assailant- it was useless. Two fell; cut in half to the strike of his axe. Two more were grotesquely thrashing on the unholy ground, shrieking out while their bones and innards decomposed putridly, nothing but a burnt outline and cloth remains where they once stood. Soon the wails faded into silence.

Watching on, Ryndan and his group did nothing as the death knight admired his handiwork, seemingly proud of the destruction he wrought. He rolled his neck, shifted his shoulders, caressed his axe. What was left of the bodies moved no more behind him.

"See? Much more effective," his grin was rictus and twisted as he addressed the party. Edrikson had long emptied his stomach, Danila was on his knees gagging and muttering in his own language, Jerewyn had turned her back in horror, and Jason had tears unashamedly running down his face. The wolf was on his hackles, teeth bared and a low growl emitting from his throat vocalising Ryndan's feelings.

"That- that was atrocious, dishonourable," he spoke quietly, his voice controlled and forced.

"Honour is for the weak, _Captain._ I did what needed to be done, nothing more," Terowin retorted confidently.

"That was _Unholy_ and _unrighteous_. Sheathe your weapon _now_ and follow at the back. You've had your fun, now you do _nothing_ ," spitting through gritted teeth, the Captain couldn't even look to Terowin as he grabbed Danila's cloak and pulled him to standing, forcing him to get a hold of himself. Grabbing the burning torch from where he had stabbed it into the ground, Ryndan strode forward and deliberately set the plague wagon aflame, cursing all wicked and heinous things in this world- including the man standing not a few feet away.

Their mission was simple enough- meeting with Scout Knowles earlier today, they had been tasked with ridding of these infernal contraptions dotted about the Vrykul town of Halgrind. Adams was correct when he said the Forsaken were up to something terrible here. Situated in a valley below them, the town was smog-infested and fume-ridden. Laying low, the green air filtered around and made them very ill- that much was clear. These wagons- four, intel had reported- were spraying concoctions most foul upon the inhabitants, using them as plausible and handy test subjects. Ryndan was more than disgusted.

Their first takeover was a success, the men and himself, alongside the wolf, deftly tearing down the helpless apothecaries at their work, disallowing any survivors. Ryndan wasn't sorry- this plague was death personified in chemical form and he couldn't allow it to survive. Utilising a torch lit from the Ember Clutch itself, the first wagon ignited easily, little smoke rising from it as it burned away. The second one fell just as smoothly, the people- no, the Undead there hapless against their attacks. However, approaching the third, Terowin claimed there was an easier way to do this and made the rest stand at a distance, content to deal with this himself.

The Captain now regretted letting him have his way, never mind bringing him along in the first place. Jerewyn had nearly decided not to attend, so angered was she at the presence of 'someone like him' in her personal vicinity. Clearly showing a hatred of the Knights that the Crusade could not, she voiced all of her brazen- and quite frankly justified- opinions about why he should not come along and why they should all be wiped from the face of the lands. It had taken Bart and Luciya to convince her to calm her temper and come along, claiming that the situation was immediate and could not be put on hold for her personal feelings. She had reluctantly agreed only because everything else was ready and they had to leave yesterday.

Struggling to contain his own temper, Ryndan strode away from the scene, any attempt he could make to try to wipe the screams from his mind. Thinking that they moved too slowly, he shouted at the rest to move quicker, his fury spilling over into his orders. Taking a deep breath nearly broke the strength it had taken Ryndan not to throw up. The horrific aroma of burnt flesh and burning metal assaulted him, his sight turning dizzy and strange. Regrettably he contained his bodily reflexes and stalked forward, wanting this mission complete. By the time they found their way to the final encampment, the crusaders had mostly gathered themselves, throwing their terror and grief into their slaying. Ryndan knew it was wrong, they should only battle under controlled frames of mind, but he himself was far too disturbed to lecture them on meditation and calming of their thoughts. He would ask their forgiveness later for allowing them to fight in such a state, and hope that one of the attending priests in their contingent could assuage their upset- even counsel Jerewyn should she require it.

The girl had said at camp last night that she only turned her bow on animals- and not for sport, but for hunting purposes. She spoke with a great deal of respect about her profession, leaving the killing blows to the wolf that accompanied her. In self defence, she had answered, would she fire an arrow at someone, and even then it was to incapacitate and not kill. Her shooting was uncanny- four times in the first two assaults had she shot an arrow to the knee or shoulder of an apothecary attempting to fight back, effectively saving Jason and Danila from becoming test subjects themselves. She boasted an amazing eye and long sight, something she attributed to her parents. With very dark skin and shiny flaxen hair, she certainly had a strong mixed background. Her build was thick and sturdy, a hunter's body. Her grace was unparalleled, having watched her move ahead of the group, attempting to sniff out any potential scouts around the wagons before they made their move. The wolf listened to all of her commands, and frequently did things on his own- something which she seemed used to given how unsurprised she was.

And now Ryndan felt guilt rise like bile as he realised what he had exposed her too with Terowin in their group. Thinking it would do no harm to bring him along, Ryndan sought to water his Endless Hunger pangs. Terowin had said nothing to the Captain, and in fact he generally blended so far into the background of Westguard that Ryndan often forgot about him. However, after speaking with Terowin and Luciya about the curse of Death Knights, Ryndan felt it to be the best thing- a chance to kill in controlled circumstances effectively. Without the Vrykul attacks like at Valgarde, he wondered if Terowin didn't feel like murdering someone in camp- he could now see Ashwood's fears about a death knight snapping in the middle of his Argent Brothers and Sisters. A small voice in the back of his mind also said that having someone of such power with them might not do any harm either on their mission, having witnessed what he thought to be Terowin's true power back at Valgarde. How wrong he was.

The last apothecary had fallen and to Ryndan's guarded relief, Cersae was not among any of them. He had dreaded meeting her in such a situation, knowing he would be forced into making a decision he didn't want to. Even so, just because she wasn't within these groups, didn't mean she was elsewhere doing something else to help them. Fire in his eyes, he watched as the last canister became enveloped in the flames, his nerves shaken and out of sorts. Defeated, rather than happy, they marched back around the edge of the valley, trying to stray as far away from Terowin's personal slaughter site.

"What's that down there?" Jerewyn muttered. Following her gaze down into the settlement, he couldn't pinpoint exactly what she was looking at. Squinting, she peered down closer and then gasped. "It's an apothecary I think, down there!" She looked to Ryndan. "I think he's dead, but he's clutching something –a bag, I think, in 'is 'ands." Once more Ryndan looked to where she pointed, but even he struggled to make the bodily outline lying in the middle of a dirt road.

"He appears to be guarding it, almost with his life," Darksworn drawled. It took what little mental strength Ryndan possessed to not turn around and break the man's jaw for speaking right now. He did not miss the dirty looks that Jason threw the death knight either. "It may be important," he continued, unaware or ignoring all signs that he should _shut up._

"Then you can fetch it," Ryndan turned to him. "I entrust you to retrieve that bag and return it to me." With a mocking bow, Terowin agreed. Just as he turned to leave, Jason called, "If you are caught or in trouble, don't expect us to come down to save you!" Throwing a smirk over his shoulder, Terowin withdrew his axe and sauntered down a dirt road. Within ten minutes, Terowin was down there, cutting down the Vrykul who got in his way with ease. It was clear to see they were ill and sluggish, barely able to lift a weapon to the death knight. Seemingly unaffected by the fumes, he made his way to the corpse, rummaging around before standing tall and waving the bag at them from a distance. Disgusted at his manner, they waited for his return, Ryndan unsure if he should be ashamed of the feelings of disappointment at Terowin's survival in the town.

Throwing the satchel at Ryndan, he caught it, his eyes flashing dangerously as the Death Knight tried his patience even further. Discreetly, he opened the bag and peered inside.

* * *

"Scout Knowles said you were the one to bring this to; do you understand what this is?" Ryndan held the vial delicately in his hands, the liquid inside ghastly and dangerous, no doubt. The gnome he waved it at currently sat in the Westguard tavern, perched upon a small seat at the bar. Advised by Scout Knowles to bring this to her right away, he was about to entrust her 'amateur alchemical knowledge' in figuring out exactly what this was. It was a sickly green, but much darker and more watery than what was in the plague tanks. Having found it in the slain apothecary's bag, he needed to know whether this was dangerous or not- even if it meant consulting a drunk alchemist.

"Oh hey, handsome! Yeah! Hi! I'm Poppy Wrengnozzle, no, Puppy- _Peppy Wrongnozzle_!" she hiccupped and burped, an alcoholic aroma accompanying her bad manners. Ignoring that, he pressed on.

"I need your help, you are an alchemist yes?"

"Aye! Only one here as far as I knew. Now. _Know_ ," she giggled, draining the last of her half-tankard. Reining in his patience to hold, he urged her to sober enough to regard the situation properly. Hazily, she squinted at the glass item and snatched it from his hands- it looked more like a flask in hers than the vial it was. Sending a prayer in favour of The Light, Ryndan hoped she wouldn't botch this up.

"Oh...hey, that'sh different! Okay, let me shee that shtuff. I jusht love tinkering with alchemy! Interesting, interesting... here, I think I know jusht what to do. A little mixing of that with the jusht the right amount of thish. You know, I think a little dash of this rotgut will help, too ...hic!" she ushered him away, concentrating very hard on the contents. With orders to return in an hour or so, Ryndan divested of his armour up in his room, sighing sadly at the scratches it had acquired over the last two days. Collapsing onto his bed he rubbed his tired face. They had ridden all afternoon and into the night to get the little container back to the town. Partly out of urgency to understand what it was and partly to save his younger soldiers- and Jerewyn- spending another night camping with Terowin there, he had pushed their mounts hard to arrive. They had quickly disbanded upon entering the settlement, Ryndan ignoring Terowin's knowing looks and had set off immediately for the inn to find this alchemist.

His body hurt and ached, the soreness familiar to his joints and skin rubbed where his padding chafed through his shirt. He had grown a little unfit during his recovery period that much was clear. His sword was heavier to wield, armour harder to move in- which shouldn't be the case given it was specifically made to his personal specifications. For nearly two years he had worn the ensemble proudly and confidently into his many battles, deftly and attentively caring for it afterwards, making sure each scratch was made undone, each dent hammered back out, and each leather strap still strong and sturdy. Over the years, the routine of polishing became habit and a soothing task for Ryndan, his shaken nerves settled with each wipe of his rags.

Feeling fatigue set in, he pulled himself up, stretching and cracking each knot that he could. Tiredly, Ryndan washed and redressed. Heading back downstairs for water- he didn't feel like eating- Ryndan came across Commander Ashwood settled at her table, paperwork surrounding her yet again. On a cold night as this, most were tired and in bed this late, leaving the tavern mostly empty and quiet. Ryndan was lucky Peppy liked her ale otherwise he would have to have waited until morning.

"Commander," he greeted wearily.

"Firesworn? Welcome back- I didn't expect you until tomorrow at the earliest," she said, gesturing to the seat across from her. Sitting with his water, he watched as she organised rosters, tally counts and letters.

"Your mission was successful?" she asked, still shuffling her work. Unable to find the words, Ryndan saw her pause to regard him before laying her documents to rest. "Captain?"

"Yes, Sir, the mission was successful," he recited dutifully. Realising how disrespectful he sounded, he sat straighter and sighed. "Apologies, Commander, I am very tired. Yes- we have taken care of the plague wagons surrounding Halgrind."

" _Wagons?_ They were implementing it with _wagons?"_ He shared her disbelief- when they first heard about the spraying machines; it had taken seeing them personally for Ryndan to believe Scout Knowles.

"Yes, but they are dismantled and unusable now," he grimaced as he saw the vehicles caught in flame, evaporating into the sky polluting all around them.

"Captain- what's wrong. You look haunted, man," Ashwood asked, concerned. Ryndan didn't realise he looked so worn down- though he certainly felt it. It was a little while before he could answer.

"Commander, just who have we allied ourselves with?" Ryndan fixated on an uninteresting spot on the wall beside him, his mouth speaking without his permission. "I just watched Darksworn unleash hell upon several unwitting apothecaries, tearing them down through such, such blasphemous and horrific methods. They didn't have that power at Light's Hope, Sir. There was ice, and- and frost. Blizzards and – and even, Light forgive me, raising of the _dead-_ but not that. Not disease or- or affliction personified so cruelly on _bodies!_ They were _consumed,_ unable to escape the contagion he personally placed upon them _. How?_ How did he do it?" He focussed on Ashwood's stern gaze, unable to make sense of the mess in his mind.

"Captain, there were few who fell to such methods at Light's Hope. I am glad and sorry that you did not see it then." She carefully folded her hands as she leaned forward. "Firesworn, I am sad to say but I think you understand now the danger we face with these death knights. They have powers beyond our reckoning, who knows how or why they do what they do with such abilities. All I can say is stay wary, and keep your eyes on them."

A few moments passed as Ryndan allowed this to filter into his mind, settling his confusion and horror marginally. Slowly nodding, he breathed deep, grateful for purer air this time and swallowed his water.

"Thank you, Sir, I apologise for the outburst," he said meekly, ashamed to appear weak in front of his commanding officer.

"No apology needed, you are only mortal and it is natural to experience fear where nothing is expected otherwise." Agreeing, Ryndan fell into companionable silence. His thoughts flew around his mind so fast; he could scarce grab onto them. However, there was one dire question he wanted to hear an answer to. Waiting until she had finished her remaining work, the blood elf asked for her attention.

"Sir, what do you think will happen to the Death Knights if- no _, when_ Arthas is defeated?" Ashwood looked surprised, but not alarmed.

"I think they will die, personally. Without Arthas' powers to feed from, they will fall en masse, I believe," she voiced strongly, and not without prejudice. Surprised, Ryndan asked what made her think so. "I am referring to your information regarding the death knight girl. You said she is waning from resisting Arthas' power, correct? If indeed that is the case, and she is not controlling her own physical state for sympathy's sake, then surely being cut off completely should finish her, no?" Stunned, Ryndan realised how true her logic was. If their life forces were directly connected to Arthas' own strength, then surely his death would indeed end them? He didn't know if he was more scared of the prospect of so many dying at once, or that he felt a pang of fear at the death of one particular knight. Unfortunately, he was unable to ruminate any longer on the conflict as he was interrupted.

"Hey! Elfy-man! Gotcha shtuff for ya!" Peppy appeared at Ryndan's elbow, a new glass container sloshing its contents about. "Voila, inshtant plague vacshine! But I sure as heck am not going to try thish on myself. And I know you don't want to be my tesht shubject!" Ryndan threw an apologetic look to an amused Commander Ashwood. The drunken gnome muttered to herself for a moment. "Oh, I've got... I've got an idea! We've got a vrykul prishoner being held down in the cells under the keep. Why don't you take thish mix I whipped up down there, and get that giant to drink it ...hic?!" She thrust the vaccine into his hands and giggled again. Thanking her Ryndan regarded the mixture. Now a luminous green, he felt uneasy still holding such a thing. Indeed, it was the plague like they suspected, but if they could create a viable vaccination, then there would be less threat against them should the Forsaken somehow utilise it against them or their allies.

Raising his head to his kaldorei commander, Ryndan flashed a smile. "Fancy a walk to the keep, Commander?"

* * *

It was no vaccine. It was horrific. Guarded by no fewer than nine, the weakened Vrykul was chained and caged under the keep in a single cell, kept watch over all hours of the day. Insisting, Ashwood had administered the liquid forcibly, exerting her awing strength as she clamped his jaw shut with her arms, the giant flailing poorly as he had no choice to swallow.

The effect was instant. He violently shook, jerking in all angles. Grabbing Ashwood out of there, Ryndan watched as the Vrykul jumped up and bellowed loudly. Horrified, they watched as he banged his head repeatedly off the cell wall, blood bursting forth and running down his dirtied face. His body twisted in all ways, unable to escape whatever agony he was undergoing, clawing at his body and skull with broken nails. The deep cries of pain soon changed into moaning, an eerie gurgle echoing from his throat. Gagging, the Vrykul fell to his knees shuddering, clutching himself with his bound hands- and then he expired. The body mutated grossly, muscle deflating and expanding rapidly before bursting in a show of blood and sinew.

Ryndan was on his knees, throwing up the water he had drunk earlier combined with bile, choking and squeezing tears out at the barbaric sight he had just witnessed. He heard the others vomiting and calling out in disgust as he tried to rid the taste from his mouth, the memory from his mind. Shakingly, he accepted a hand from Ashwood and stood, noting her paled face and tense expression.

With a deliberate and admirable control over her gag reflex, she managed to whisper, "I think that the vaccine is quite the opposite, Captain. It seems the Forsaken have themselves a viable plague."

* * *

By mid-afternoon the next day, Captain Adams' temper had cooled enough to call for an aerial assault on the Forsaken town to the south. With instructions to only bomb any plague tanks present at the settlement, he sent trained gryphon riders and engineers to rain hell down on them. By sunset, they had returned successful, claiming that there were five more of these doomsday machines there.

Despite living with the apparent 'knowledge' that the Forsaken only intended this use for Scourge genocide only, Ryndan found it hard to convince himself that they hadn't done the right thing. No matter which way he looked at it, the eradication of the Forsaken Plague was for the best, even if it may cost them the war in Northrend. Morals during wartime often clashed with necessity, but in this case, Ryndan agreed with the outcome. Winning by such means was too dangerous an idea to support given its threatening presence, and so the Captain of the Argent Crusade could only wish and pray that his Undead friend could also understand that come their next meeting.

His thoughts straying to the death knight girl once again, Ryndan felt the part of him that empathised with her wane. With each piece of newfound knowledge regarding the Death Knights and now the evolution of the plague, he felt what little trust he had in her fade, wondering if she indeed did mislead him all that time in Valgarde and just how she must be laughing at the fool she made of him for wanting to believe in her. The sympathy he felt at her probable death at Arthas' downfall disappeared swiftly with his acceptance of her probable motives.

Not anymore, he thought. He was done thinking well of her, his faith in Cersae now lost.


	28. Reminiscing

_Twelve days after arriving at Westguard_.

"G'd evenin' Cap'n- Mind if we join you?" looking up from his paperwork, Ryndan was greeted by a bright orange vision leaning over his table. Given her false exaggerated accent, he didn't register that it was in fact the partially scarred Luciya.

"Er, certainly, please," he indicated to the spare chair. Late at night, few milling around at this time in the inn, the Captain had sat alone distractedly eating his now-cold supper for some time. His setting sat directly across from the inn door- allowing the winter air to hit him any time someone entered or exited the building. He was beginning to wish he were more flaunting of his rank to order the cadets who held the table across from the fireplace to vacate, now.

"What'cha doin?" Luciya pried continuing in her Jerewyn-esque accent, attempting to eye up the reports he held in his hand in a not-so-sly manner.

"Medical reports, just check-ups on the troops and auxiliary staff," he sighed in response, fatigue wrapping around him unkindly. The medical and healing team had orderly examined every person in the contingents, detailing the slightest changes in physical or mental health. Overall, their death toll only attributed to those lost at Valgarde and on the rescue mission at sea- a considerably low count compared to those further north in 'Zul'drak' and from the Alliance Expedition; a fact of which Ryndan was shamefully grateful. While not officially in charge of any individual from those groups, Ryndan still received brief updates via Ashwood about the state of the armies across Northrend, feeling each loss as keenly as if it were his own.

Even despite their low death toll, Ryndan was highly concerned. A lot of his men and women had lost weight- an unhealthy amount, himself included. Few _needed_ to lose it, with daily drilling and exercises, Ryndan made sure his soldiers were as fit as possible. Nevertheless, even taking into account the sickly few who still were steadily regaining weight after being human test subjects to the Royal Apothecary Society all those weeks ago, there were still too many to his liking thinning under his command. It was not uncommon to lose weight on campaign; the battle and post-battle stress, being so far from loved ones, illness and the rationing all contributing factors, but even so- in all of his years of service, Ryndan had not witnessed a mass drop in health such as this with an army.

He made a note to speak to Ashwood about it first thing in the morning, his superior having already departed for her bed.

"Oh, boring stuff then?" Luciya prompted evidently less excited now that her curiosity was satisfied.

"Maybe to anyone else other than me," he smiled stacking them away. He eyed his cold stew and decided to forgo it, gently pushing it away in nausea. His appetite had been sorely lacking since the…plague incident three days ago.

_"What_ is that?" she asked of the bowl, a clear look of disgust and wariness on her scarred face.

"Leftover meatballs in thick, sludgy gravy with several-day old veg," a third person sat at the table beside Luciya, a similar bowl of steaming gunk in her hands. "Want some?" Jerewyn spooned some of her food, turning her utensil to allow the stew to drip thickly back into its bowl.

"Er, no thank you, I'll pass," Luciya waved, scrunching up her face. Instead, she turned her attention to a sizable battered toolbox, opening it on the table and clunking around for something inside.

"Are you still not eating meat?" Jerewyn asked of her.

"What do you mean 'still'?" Luciya looked up from her unnameable contraption, apparently offended by her friend.

"I thought it might be a phase or something," the huntress shrugged, slurping generously at her stew turning Ryndan's stomach in the process. "Meat is brilliant, it's so chewy and _gor_ geous when cooked right, even more so if you were the one to catch it!"

"You're so gross, Jerry. That's just…no," Luciya shuddered. Ryndan was unaware that she did not eat meat. It would explain her lean figure though, he reflected, wondering what brought about such a practice as abstaining from meat.

"Don't know what you're missin' out on, Luce. Though, there was one time I wished I weren't eatin' it now that I think about it. I remember a while back I was sitting in the pens with Miles 'ere and we'd just finished roasting this 'ere turkey, right." Ryndan found her use of 'we' for cooking adorable, like a child playing with a doll at a tea-party, almost. "And there's me, stuffing my face on a tender leg- cos you know what I'm like with a fresh chunk o' meat, I just dig right into it!"

"Yeah, I know all too well," Luciya said under her breath.

"And then this bloke I fancied walked by, lookin' all prim and proper, yeah- and yep, there's me, drenched from head to toe in muck, fresh back from a hunt, hay sticking to me in all the wrong places and turkey grease drippin' down me face- I was black affronted!" she slammed the palm of her hand off of her thigh in a dramatic finish to her tale, lightening Ryndan's worried mood.

"Serves you right for acting like an animal then, don't it?" Luciya grinned.

"Ack, what do you know, you freak. I mean, who doesn't eat meat? Even Miles, for all he's so picky will still eat most of what I give 'im." Her accent had taken him a little while to grow accustomed to on their journey a few days ago, noticing the way she pronounced 'what' as more of a 'wot', her loud manner sometimes being mistaken as confrontational even when it's clear that was not her intention. Nevertheless he had found her charming, falling comfortably in a party of three men and a death knight.

"Miles, that's an interesting name- what was the origin of that?" Ryndan asked only for one woman to crumble with laughter and the huntress in question to give an embarrassed chuckle at him. Now his curiosity was piqued.

"Ah, well, funny you should ask. I was given 'im as a pet when I was what, five, six? So back then, I didn't really understand gender differences, y'see," she coughed, her brown skin turning dark with her blush. "And err, I was pretty adamant that _Millie_ was a nice name…so…he was called Millie for the first two years of 'is life." Ryndan struggled to keep a straight face in light of this story, fond similar memories rising in response. "Yeah, yeah, you can laugh- my brothers did an' all. But I changed it when I realised!" she half-stood hastily in defence of her actions, nearly knocking over her bowl.

Raising his own hands Ryndan placated her, "I understand- I have four sisters and know all too well about feminine fancies!" She relaxed visibly and plonked back down in her chair, brushing two fallen locks of her luminous golden hair out of her face.

"Four sisters, eh? Rather you than me. I'll stick with my free older brothers, thanks," she smiled sympathetically at him looking all the eighteen-year-old she was.

"It wasn't so bad, but there are some parts of my childhood I will not reveal upon pain of death for sheer embarrassment at what I was made to do in the name of playtime," Ryndan explained, enticing a lyrical laugh from her. "Entering military life seemed almost a blessing and an escape by comparison," he finished. Luciya had long left the conversation, her head bowed deeply over her unknown project, cut off from the rest of the world in her concentration. Turning back to the youngest of their group he asked, "So, three brothers?"

"Yep. There's Joseph- the eldest. Jackson, next in line. Julian above me and then yours truly, the prettiest of the bunch," she smiled widely again, dark brown eyes shining in pride.

"I'm sensing a small pattern there?"

"Yep, courtesy of me parentals Jeremiah and Julie. They figured I was going to be a boy too so they were set on 'Jerry', but lo and behold here I am- the oddball of the lot," she smiled widely, happy to be talking about her large family. It did people good to reminisce about those they loved, much like him and his own family back home. "Much prefer Jerry to Jerewyn any day! Go on, ask me what my second name is," she urged, taking another spoonful of her dinner.

"What's your second name, Jerewyn?" he responded, habitually using her proper name like he was taught. Luckily, she didn't respond to it and instead burst out-

"Jenkins!" she cried, startling Luciya and laughing.

"I see, very alliterative! How creative of your parents."

"If I ever 'ave children- the Light forbid- I'll name them something beginning with 'X' or 'Z'," she stated boldly. "Not going to subject my weins to that, oh no."

"I am a little more fortunate- none of my siblings share poetic names I'm afraid."

"Lucky them. You the oldest?" She was forward in her manner, but not aggressively so. He found it often in a few of his younger soldiers- more so the older he became, actually- and it was rather refreshing compared to the 'Yessirs' and stiff salutes. Despite trying to encourage a familiar and warm bond with his troops, the hierarchy of military life was still very evident in the way they addressed him. It was probably why he was so fond of sitting with Luciya and Bartheleus- being outsiders to the Crusade they treated him like a man and even friend, as opposed to a commanding or inferior officer.

"Nay, the middle child," he sighed tiredly, his body starting to stiffen with fatigue as he shifted on his chair.

"Oh, that must be weird. One boy in t'middle of four girls. I don't envy ya, Cap'n…er- Ryndan…um…ah…" her mouth formed a multitude of shapes before he helped her out.

"Firesworn," he prompted.

" _Firesworn!_ Cheers, sorry, kinda forgot," she bowed her head meekly. "Firesworn though, sounds quite a heavy name to bear- to pledge yourself to something that'll burn you or hurt you or worse," she said off-handedly before returning to her stew. Ryndan felt moved by her words, not really having thought about it after nearling thirty years wearing the surname. Falling into companionable silence, the three sat encompassed in their own thoughts until a movement caught Ryndan's eye. He watched as the innkeeperess cleared a nearby table and walked out of sight.

Surreptitiously peering around, Jerewyn whistled an odd tune and Ryndan saw with surprise as the inn door squeaked open and a black nose peered in. "Come on in, boy, she's gone to the kitchens," Jerewyn whispered. Seemingly understanding his mistress, he watched as Miles entered the inn, slowly closed the door with his hind leg and padded around to the girl's feet, laying on the floor. "Sorry about that," she addressed Ryndan directly now, "the landlady here doesn't like 'im in the buildin' so I've got to sneak 'im in." Breaking a piece of her bread, she held it down to the wolf. "'Ere you go, you grumpy sod, stop whinging at me now."

"Would he like my stew, perhaps?" the paladin offered his bowl, unsure if anything else was appropriate in such a strange social situation.

"Oh, no ta, 'e's a fussy one- don't like the stew here. Not that I blame him, look at this shit, I could cook better in me sleep!" she indicated to her bowl once more, even though clearly displeased with the contents, she ate it nonetheless. She seemed perky and all-in-all normal, the incident from three days ago at Halgrind either forgotten or in the process of becoming so. Not an uncommon defensive tactic after witnessing something so horrific- Ryndan had yet to sleep well, or rather as good as he had been in comparison prior to the cruel slaughter at Darksworn's hands- as well as the after events.

Jerewyn started to speak in low tones to her pet- something she had done on their journey to see Scout Knowles. She gave the impression of mutual understanding between the two, though Ryndan failed to fathom how such a thing was possible given the wolf's general lack of response to anything she said or did unless food was involved. Part of him wondered if such conversations only happened in her head. She seemed happy enough and so he did not question her on it. Deciding to leave her be, he turned back to the engineer- who now sported a peculiar set of goggles on her face.

"Luciya, might I ask what you are doing?"

"Huh?" as she looked up, Ryndan snorted aloud. Bug-eyed and ridiculous looking, the woman across from him appeared every inch a budding engineer with her gizmos and gadgets whirling around her headpiece and large lenses magnifying her amber eyes wildly. "Are you laughing at me, Ryndan Firesworn?"

Pulling a straight face, he denied it fiercely.

"I'll have you know I am working on a prototype lock-explosive," she stated crossly.

"A _what_? At the dinner table? Luce, a time and a place, love!" Jerewyn nearly jumped from her chair, startling her wolf. Luciya threw her a look of disinterest, peering over her goggles.

"It's not armed, you fool," she said pointedly. "When we were in- in the catacombs," she swallowed noticeably, "I had to free some people, like you asked," she looked to Ryndan who nodded in remembrance. "Well, what I had on me was successful enough, but it was destructive. Too much so, anyway. The damage was too extensive for the situation it was designed for, so I'm modifying it to make it work better," she explained, bowing her head once again. Straining, Ryndan recalled that night briefly. To make it work…?

_"That is not how the Argent Dawn works!" he spoke through gritted teeth, spit landing on her face. His anger was nearly beyond restraint._

_"Correction! That is not how you work! Don't know if you've noticed this,_ Ryndan, _but I am not like you!" Something flashed in his eyes, his mouth contorting into something unkind. He watched as her eyes widened in surprise or fear- or both._

_"That was cold-blooded murder-" he sneered, taking satisfaction in her small flinch._

_"Well noticed! It was cold-blooded_ and _pre-emptive. It was him or us. Hell, maybe even one of your precious soldiers on the battlefield during the next raid. It was kill him now, or kill him later when he's had a go at some of your men!" she cried back, not letting up from the corner she was in._

_"And I suppose you were going to chop him up, like you wanted to your last kill,_ Hacker _?" he mocked, wanting to rile her further, force her to make a mistake._

_"Yes! I did! I wanted to see his entrails spread across this cold stone floor like he deserves!" Eyes widened in disgust, he lifted his boot from her chest and just stared at the girl below him. Even when she stood up, he was still examining her like an alien artefact. This person was beyond immoral and unholy…_

_"There is something very wrong with you, girl-."_

_"But was I wrong to kill him?" he could still see the blood coating her, the front of her dire armour dyed an ominous red._

_"That's besi-" A large_ bang _echoed down through the halls, seemingly coming from where we had entered the catacombs. Sharing a look of on-edge surprise, Ryndan and the girl were startled, unsure as to what exactly went 'boom'. It seemed we weren't the only ones to hear it either- the other Vrykul was stirring in his cot. The Captain cursed, striding quickly to the other set of beds. Mirroring her in intention but not form, the paladin plunged his blade into his chest- an intense light emanated from his sword forcing a harsh scream from the girl he had just been arguing with moments ago._

"Yes, I vaguely recall that, actually," he said quietly, thrown off by the sudden memory of the girl he had lost faith in. Successfully, while awake, he had not allowed her to encroach on his thoughts until now. "So that's what that noise was?"

Luciya looked at him shamefully from over her toolbox, traces of oil and coal on her hands and face. "Yeah, it was. Sorry about that. It didn't get you into trouble did it? I meant to tell you earlier, but I was a bit embarrassed, just glad you both came back safe," she scratched the back of her head, more hair falling forward.

"No, you did not cause either of us any direct trouble, do not concern yourself over it- just make that thing of yours work," he pointed to her device.

"Ah! Yes, this! This is a _beaut,_ I may have acquired some, ah, _goblin_ technology. For all they're lousy inventors, they sure do know their bombs," she fidgeted with excitement, caressing her device.

"I 'ave no idea what you two are talkin' 'bout, but I do know that that thing shouldn't be at the table- look at the mess you're making!" Jerewyn entered the conversation again.

"Oh hush, I'll clean it up and wash up before bed. Oh- can you come with me and plait my hair? You can do it straighter than I can," she indicated to her long, ginger hair- currently frazzled and harassed beyond the point that Ryndan would touch it. Having grown up with his four sisters, he was frequently made subject of such games when he was much younger, forced into learning the tricks of the trade when it came to hair-taming and styling. Partly he wondered if that was why he favoured his short hair so much- no fuss, no hassle. That and he found it easier to sleep in, wear beneath his helm as well as less likely to be a subject of lice and the like- again, another not-so-favourable part of being on campaign with few bathing facilities.

"Sure. Oh, I can talk to you about the thing when we go there then," Jerewyn said cryptically.

"The thing?"

"You know- the _thing_ with the thing? And the _whom?_ " the girl pressed, trying extremely hard to not give away whatever secret lay between the two women. Ryndan knew well enough that it was code for something boy-related.

"Oh! That. Y-yes, I did, actually. I don't think you should get your hopes up, Jerry, he doesn't seem interested," Luciya said apologetically, looking to her toolkit as she addressed her friend.

"What?! Did he say specifically about me?"

"Well, no, not quite. Just- I don't think you should hold onto him. He seems to be focussed on his work," she explained, Jerewyn's face falling in response. Miles sat up and placed his head on her lap, her hand stroking him absently.

"Thanks anyway, Luce. I appreciate it."

"No need to thank me, Jerry," Luciya mumbled. Ryndan figured she was hiding something but wasn't going to step in between the two where it were not his business.

"Where's Bartheleus tonight?" Ryndan asked, changing topic, disliking the gloom resting around the woman across him.

"Right here- glad to know you missed me, Ryndan," said elf spoke entering the inn- a friend in tow. Offering a wave to him, Bartheleus drew up a chair beside and bade the other man to sit also. The stranger contemplated the situation, almost looking as if he would refuse before sitting at the end of the table next to Jerewyn. Looking up from her dinner at the additions to the table she squeaked and started to choke. The man was already thumping her back before Ryndan and Bart were out of their chairs.

"Hi- er," she coughed again. "Th-thanks." The Captain was unsure if the shake in her voice was due to her fright or because of the man's presence.

"No problem. Jerewyn, isn't it?" he said, accented slightly. His gaze was direct, making the girl shift under his watch.

"Uh-huh," she said faintly. Ryndan watched with keen amusement, thinking she had not blinked yet.

"I'm Alexander," he turned to the rest of the table. "Alexander Pyrebrand."

"I met him earlier today, he's one of the Kirin Tor mages from Dalaran," Bart interjected, pleased to have made another friend it appeared. The man was the same age, possibly- or more likely, younger than Ryndan. Fair skin and blond hair sticking out at all angles gave the impression that he didn't take care of his appearance, but Ryndan just felt it was more untameable than cooperative.

"How do you do, Captain Ryndan Firesworn of the Argent Crusade," he reached over and shook Alexander's hand firmly. "From Dalaran? I'm heading there myself in three days." Alexander simply nodded and gave a small smile.

"And this is Jerewyn, who you know it seems. At the far end of the table is Luciya Green, my dear friend and oil-covered engineer," Bart continued. Luciya didn't lift her head, instead she tinkered further with her mechanics. "Luci," he said firmly but to no fruition. "Luciya!" Bart raised his voice forcing her attention.

"What?! Oh- oh. Hi. We've met before," was all she said before going back to her engineering. Bart remained silent, his eyes flicking between the two but remained silent with his thoughts. Ryndan could surmise what was going through his mind and didn't know how to placate him. His friend's feelings for the woman was beyond obvious and Ryndan couldn't help thinking that she deliberately ignored him for whatever reasons. The workings of a female mind baffled him beyond belief.

Ordering several tankards for the table occupants, they spoke amongst themselves- Jerewyn saying the most with Alexander saying little to nothing at all. Ryndan liked him- he wasn't deliberately ignorant, just observant of those around him, wanting to listen before talking. He didn't blame the man, being seated with those you hardly know may seem a little daunting. Ryndan and Bart lead most of the conversation, light-hearted chatting in the midst of a war almost enough to forget the imminent danger. Jerewyn pushed forward attempting to speak with the newcomer but was met with little response. All seemed peaceful for a small while until their drinks were nearly dry and the inn nearly empty. Until Terowin arrived.

Uninviting he sat at the opposite end of the table to Alexander- between Luciya and Ryndan.

"Good eve, fellow people. What a fine day today!" He said in feigned politeness, his echoed voice scraping at Ryndan's innards. A low growling was heard as Jerewyn glared at the man, Miles' hackles just visible above the table.

" _Death knight-_ no one invited you to the table. It would do me great pleasure if you pissed off," she said through bared teeth.

"Oh come now, child. We had such bonding time only a few days ago! Don't tell me you have fallen out with me," Terowin pouted mockingly, riling her further.

"Darksworn, that's enough. I don't want to hear any more mention of 'a few days ago', are we clear?" Ryndan warned quietly. "It would be best if you left the table. Now."

"Oh, ho. So that's how it is. So when _Cersae_ slaughters it's all in the name of the Argent Dawn and for the good of the people she saved, but when _I_ do it I am condemned and cursed?" the death knight sat up straighter, a serious look taking over his deathly-grey face.

"She had no choice in her actions- you however were in full control. Now I suggest you leave at once!" Ryndan's temper was growing more rapidly than he'd like, his tolerance for all things undead at its limit.

He laughed dirtily, indicating that the situation was more than the contrary "You think she has no choice? Captain, I believe you should review your evidence of what you know of us," he smirked. Ryndan noted that the rest of the table were still and watching with bated breath- apart from Alexander it seemed. Even Luciya had paused in her fanatical inventing to witness the outcome of this discussion. Knowing he was being scrutinised by his friends, Ryndan reigned his anger in tighter. Not wanting an all-out argument or worse, Ryndan decided to try a different tactic to deal with him.

"Spit it out Darksworn, I am in no mood for your games." Ryndan was aching and tired, the feeling of exhaustion in the mind making it worse rather than the body. Terowin leaned forward onto the table.

"Figure this, you are faced with a hostile target before with his back turned. He is not aware of you yet, what do you do?" A standard battle scenario, more so if infiltrating behind enemy lines. What did it have to do with the situation though? Ryndan thought wearily.

"Knock him out," Luciya suggested quietly. Bart nodded adding that perhaps even stealth would be a better option over that, simply avoid detection in the first place.

"Indeed, walking on and avoiding unnecessary fights is my preferred philosophy," Ryndan sighed agreeing, well aware that there were few opportunities to allow for such a course of action.

"Personally I'd aim an arrow at his head and advise that he cooperates or else," Young Jerewyn said, taking a swig from her tankard, evidently less agitated at Darksworn's presence, or perhaps just reigning in her black mood like Ryndan. Her wolf lay back down at her feet, ears flicking at the sound of his mistress's voice. A low grumble erupted from him causing his owner to kick him softly. "Hush you old beggar, they'd just have to speak my language or else," she told him. Ryndan caught Luciya and Bartheleus exchanging a quick amused glance, feeling he was missing something. She…couldn't _actually_ talk to her wolf, could she? Terowin leaned forward on the table, his distinct aura making Ryndan feel a little off.

Mage? What would you do?" he asked. All eyes turned to view the most silent in the group. Strong jawed and serious-browed, his blond hair was on the side of bright gold like Jerry's, easily the most noticeable thing about him such as Luciya's own fiery hair was her most prominent feature, or at least once one has looked past the angry scar or cleavage, if her clothes promoted such a view. Luckily, Alexander was fully garbed in a deep red robe with long sleeves and proper collar, thus saving him from showing any potential cleavage. At the mention of his title, his blue eyes flicked to the deathly elf, arms crossed and mouth drawn in a tight line.

"I would transform his body to my will, rendering him unable to move or operate thus allowing me to finish the task at hand without spilling blood. If he resisted however, then he will die." His statement was so simple that it took a few moments to sink in. Jerry had a look of confused horror, paused mid swing of drinking from her tankard. Bartheleus narrowed his elven eyes to view the man in a similar manner that Ryndan had furrowed his own brow at the explanation. Luciya's face showed what he could only describe as intrigue, possibly coupled with caution. The only person not disturbed on some level by what he had said was Terowin. The sickly green elf had a gleam of amusement in his eyes, clearly agreeing with whatever Alexander's method of dealing with an unguarded target.

"Beautifully said, mage." His mouth twisted into that damnable smirk again. "Now that we know what you would choose, shall we ask ourselves what my dear Little Sister would do?"

_"Little Sister_?" Luciya exclaimed.

"Just a terminology for fellow-at-arms, in this case for a woman who is also younger than him in his ranks. It is an unnecessary title, however," Ryndan said pointedly at the Death Knight. He simply regarded Ryndan with cool amusement.

"Is that so, _Firesworn_?" he smirked viciously, Ryndan clenching his fists. "Anyway, Cersae would be presented with a living body that possibly stood in her way of her objective. Viewing the exposed back two options are presented- run or kill."

"Not incapacitate?" Luciya asked.

"Doesn't even cross her mind later on when reviewing the situation in hindsight, I'm afraid. Now the decision making process happens in less than an eyeblink. Before a voice deep in her mind can even finish saying 'Kill him', her blade has already penetrated his ribcage, inducing death."

"A _voice?_ You never said anything about a voice before?" Ryndan remarked, caught off guard by new information. His description of what Cersae may do in such an event was not a shock, considering he had witnessed such a happening in the Catacombs and with her negligent duties concerning the plague but this threw him.

"It took me some time to even become aware of it, if I am honest-"

Jerry snorted, "Honesty? From the likes of him? That'll be a first."

"Jerewyn," Bartheleus warned, earning a puerile glare from the girl. She tutted loudly and huffed in indignation at him.

"Oh, come on. _A voice in 'is 'ead?_ Please! That's shoving the blame elsewhere, making us sympathetic to 'is actions! He is totally in control of each ax swing he throws!" Her own voice rose, causing Bartheleus to put a hand on her arm.

"Enough, Jerewyn. We have no way of confirming nor denying what goes on in death knights' heads, just as you have no idea what I am thinking, but we must be willing to listen if we are to advance against them, or have you forgotten that we also have an army of loyal knights to the Lich King to face?" His reasoning was sound enough that the girl shut up, looking berated and angry at the same time. Her wolf's head nuzzled her lap in comfort. Her temper now diffused, Terowin continued.

"It wasn't until Light's Hope, that I really became aware of it. When I heard it for the first time in my cognisance I was so used to listening to it that it never stood out as strange. However, now alert to its presence, I began to question it for the first time. Possibly due to my recognition of it being there allows me to resist it with greater ease. Of course, the more I resist, the louder it becomes each time until it is so forceful that slaughter is the only way to shut it up." Silence met his statement, the only noises still being of those around the tavern of singing and merry people. A drastic contrast to the mood at the corner table.

"That's very detailed and personal- why do you share it now?" Bartheleus asked his fellow Kaldorei. Terowin shrugged and sat back in response, any trace of a smile lost on his face for once.

"Who knows? Perhaps I am tired of being viewed as being a tyrant, when all I am trying to do is keep my sanity." Luciya drew a small breath; Bart's own expression undeterminable and even Jerewyn had a look of concern on her face. Alexander seemed unmoved by the entire thing. Ryndan was a little disturbed, however.

"And this is the same for Cersae?" Later that night, lying in bed, Ryndan found himself only asking 'why, why was he still concerned about her when he had sworn not to?' No answer satisfied him.

"No, it is not. From what I have heard and witnessed, Cersae does not even try to resist her Hunger, in fact, she embraces it. This is a dangerous thing. It does well that she is gone." Ryndan caught the flinch that nearly overtook him and disguised it as reaching for his mostly-full tankard. Luciya and Bartheleus had not questioned her absence to Ryndan personally, having explained to them the morning after Cersae had left that she was called away to be an envoy to the Ebon Blade back at Valgarde. A deep lie- the Death Knights were not arriving via either the Alliance nor Horde ports, but to another landing site elsewhere, but they did not know that. Ryndan struggled to quash the guilt rising in his chest once more.

"I do not know who this _Cersae_ is, but is it possible that she is unaware of this 'voice' like you were in the beginning?" Alexander spoke, his voice neutral and matter-of-fact. Ryndan noticed that his accent was a little strange, only a tiny bit. He had been around Common-speakers enough to place most dialects or at least recognise them, but Alexander's was a unique one that would bug Ryndan until he could identify it.

"Impossible. After being released from the Master's hold in the Plaguelands all knights were now hearing this intruder in our minds. Ask her about the _voice_ and she would deny it, I think." His tone was firm and not open to objection.

"So she hears it and doesn't even give it a thought to sparing the life of her target?"

"In a nutshell, yes."

"Do you know who this voice is? Is it the same one for each of you?" Alexander pushed, taking an unusual interest in the matter. Ryndan caught Terowin's eyes flashing to the young man.

"It is familiar, but I cannot place it. I cannot say the same for my fellow knights, however. Perhaps it is the same voice, or perhaps it pertains only to the individual hearing it," he theorised.

"Or it is your own, being disguised as someone else's by lies," Alexander countered, earning a rare hard look from Terowin. Ryndan decided to break the mounting tension.

"That's assuming a lot- when have you witnessed her slaying, Terowin?" Ryndan asked, caught between believing and wholly dismissing this man's explanation.

"Many occasions, Captain, especially before we all met. _Oh yes_ , I remember _vividly_ her violent exploits," There was something underneath that drawl, something he was hinting at in the blue ice of his eyes that made Ryndan feel uneasy. "I had the pleasure of viewing her in the midst of battle, magnificent as she was. Blood would arc so gracefully over her, coating her in that divine colour. It is drawn to her, the crimson of blood, trying to claim her as its own. And it never stopped at warfare; there was always her _post-battle_ activities. You know to what I refer, Captain, why she is called The Ha-"

"That's _enough_ Terowin; you're making the women feel ill." Ryndan cut across him, silently warning him to keep the identity of Cersae's namesake silent and this time he refused to question why he defended the absent girl subject of their discussion. It was a blessing that Luciya had not witness Cersae massacre the remains of the Vrykul slaughtered before her, he would be unsure as to her state of mind then.

"I'm fine, blood doesn't bother me," said Luciya, her light brown eyes innocent and unknowing. "I mean, what kind of woman dislikes blood, am I right, Jerry?"

"Doesn't affect me, given my profession," Jerry shrugged. "Actually, Luce- is Tonie still at Valgarde? I got some pelts I want to send 'im..." she turned in her chair, attention lost in the conversation.

"Speak for yourselves, ladies, I would prefer to not hear any more gruesome details so close after eating," Bartheleus said. The large night elf disliked blood? Looking to him, Ryndan didn't see any sign of this fear, just a small slump of relief when the women turned from him to converse about something else. Realising, Ryndan shot him a grateful glance and nodded before turning to Terowin.

"I dislike what you say about her, Darksworn, but I am keen to know more of this. It is better suited for elsewhere, this conversation."

"I would agree, sir. However, I must inquire, are you shocked by any of my little...revelations?" he was fishing for something, of that there was no doubt but Ryndan didn't know what it was to avoid giving it to him. Bracing his voice to remain neutral, he answered "Not as much as I should be, Darksworn."

For if he was honest, Terowin's explanations matched up with what he had witnessed of the girl nearly three weeks ago, the look of feral murder in her flaming blue eyes, defying him and justifying her murdering of a slumbering defenceless enemy.

"Definitely not as shocked as I should be."

* * *


	29. Her Machination

_Two weeks after arriving in New Agamand._

"I refuse to wear it on the grounds it clashes with my complexion!"

"But eet eez da best wan I have done yet!"

We had been walking for most of the day, nearing our current 'home' of New Agamand, and for the past two hours, Lynara and Zul'khar had been going back and forth, harping on at each other constantly. About _nothing._

What started out as Zul'khar showing me a crude journal with drawings had turned into a full blown 'discussion' regarding the sketches. The troll had fanatically and happily been explaining his ideas about designing a crest for the guild before the priest had stepped in to give her unwelcomed input regarding the colour scheme. I stayed out of it wisely, as did Balija and Gresh'na. Lynara _did_ have a few valid points- pink and orange really didn't compliment anyone together but beyond that, their conversation was just annoying. Needless to say I was extremely pleased to see the dark, murky gates leading the way into the Forsaken settlement.

But only for a moment.

"Wat eez dis?" Balija voiced all of our thoughts with three words. Our return to New Agamand from a five day sojourn was met not with a welcome, but chaos. Apothecaries and others were swiftly moving around the town, carting buckets and crude brushes, everyone highly stressed and upset. The reason was clear why- the plague tanks that had sat around the town contently were now in pieces.

"I-I have no idea," I whispered, stunned at the mess. Green toxin mixed into the wet earth, the puddles a strange brown colour with ghastly-tinted reflections. The vehicles themselves were splintered and beyond repair, evidently some major explosions the cause of such a thing. Carefully we walked a new path around the spillages, avoiding the commonly used 'road' that meandered through the town. It was a testimony to the severity of the scare that Lynara didn't comment on dirtying her shoes in the mud. In silence we moved, looking at each bombsite with disturbed awe. No one paid us any heed, bidding us any warning to stay away- it was very clear to do so. I watched with fascination as an apothecary carefully shovelled the sludge into his crude pail, carrying it to the large pit in the centre and dumping it there. Judging by the state of most of their robes, they had been at the clean-up for some time.

Reaching the inn I informed the group to go clean up, I would report the findings from the Ember Clutch. Making sure they were inside safely and unlikely to reappear, I sought out Tillinghast to start Stage Three of my plan. He was crouched over a different, crude set of apparatus- his own must have been damaged, I figured.

"Tillinghast!" I called, whatever work he was doing now disrupted by my presence. Squinting, I watched as his yellow eyes focussed in my direction.

"Ah! Alchemist- how was the Ember Clutch, did you succeed?" he was as excitable as Zul'khar, but a bit less alive than the troll. Steeling myself, I voiced my practiced lie.

"No, Tillinghast, I am sad to report that the strain failed. Not only did the drake not react directly to the plagued meat, but it grew stronger. The only way we could save ourselves was to slay it before it called friends." Steadily, my speech unchanging I watched as the face of this man crumbled beyond hope. He actually believed me- I had feared I had to do more convincing, but the man literally shattered before my eyes.

While we had indeed fed a proto-drake a sodden piece of rotted meat, it had been drenched in _my_ plague strain, not Tillinghast's. By attempting such an experiment in front of the Durotar Defenders, I had witnesses in case he didn't believe me- something I had highly suspected he would do. Eating the offering had in fact enraged the drake with what I could only assume to be stomach issues from expired meat, not made it stronger, but I reported otherwise to the group. Nobody was hurt while they took care of it in that disorganised manner of theirs, though Lynara's dress did catch fire earning several un-priestly curses in my general direction. I was just pleased that my version of the toxin wasn't lethal to drakes and therefore a number of other living beings.

Silently, later that night when they slept at the campsite, I had taken Zul'khar's mace in the possibility I might need to defend myself, and travelled back to the Clutch. Using the official strain put forward by Tillinghast that I was supposed to use, I called down a second proto-drake and watched from afar as the poisoned steak killed the creature in a gruesome and quite frankly disgusting manner. I had done right by switching the experiments- I couldn't allow the Forsaken plague to escape this apothecary camp. And now, with the apparant destruction of the wagons it seemed I had less to worry about.

"NOOOOO!" The Undead man broke down now, crying pitifully on his knees. I couldn't muster anything to make me feel sorrow for him, their laboratories and alchemy creating something devastating. But I had fixed that- I know possessed the strain they _really_ wanted, only capable of killing Vrykul and Scourge. It had taken some intense, excruciating calculations but by removing one aspect of their original formula and adapting around the loss, I made it non-lethal to most life on Azeroth- add in the specific element of vrykul blood extracted from one of their own elites and you had yourself a viable plague.

"Will you be alright?" I feigned concern over the man, still sobbing his dead heart away.

"Leave me, just leave me to my despair! I am nothing…" what a drama queen, and here I thought Lynara was bad. "You might as well take all of my worldly posessions- when the rest of the apothecaries hear of my failure, I'll be done for and won't need them anyway…" he sniffled, words barely audible now beneath his raw and throaty speaking. He indicated to a battered chest by his table.

"Well," I said, holding up a new dress, "at least Lynara will be pleased."

* * *

Throwing the robe to Lynara I sat down at the table the four currently ate at and asked, "What happened here, then?"

"I spoke with a couple of residents- they both say that Alliance bombed the wagons, but deliberately missed the buildings. Why would they do that?" she answered, admiring her new clothes. "Did you report to Tillinghast?"

"Yep, he was very happy and gave me that as a reward, I figured since yours was burned that you could make more use out of it than me," I pointed to my own thick outer robe, still brown, still intact and still tripping me up at inopportune moments.

"Many thanks, Cersae. It will require alteration and-" she sniffed it, scrunching up her face, "washing, but it is salvageable whereas this is not," she said sadly of her own beloved white dress. Regarding the blue-and-brown item in her hands, she sighed, "The colour is not ideal, but I shall not complain. Ishnu-alah."

"Say what now?"

" _Ishnu-alah"_ she reiterated impatiently _."_ Good fortune to you? Cersae, I am aware you have been out of touch with Sin'dorei life for some time, but even so, you do not recall our language?" Lynara regarded me with great concern, her long eyebrows pointed down in disappointment. Oh…crap.

"Oh, yeah, erm, sorry. I haven't used it in a while." It was true, while the Forsaken used Common from their past lives, as did most of the Horde around them- hence why it's called Common, I suppose. I had heard on a rare occasion, Balija and Gresh'na speaking what I think to be orcish the other day though. A lot of grunting and huffing was involved, it sounded terribly complicated.

"How long ago were you turned, Cersae?" she pressed, scrutinising me harshly from across the table- luckily I was saved having to come up with an answer when the lead troll intervened.

"So, what eez de plan now?" Balija asked of me, her dinner now finished. Grateful for the save, I hastily made to explain the situation.

"Well, I spoke to Chief Plaguebringer Harris after Tillinghast to report the outcome of the plague testing and he said they also did some testing here at Halgrind again and it was successful too. So since the plague works on Vrykul they're satisfied enough with it and he has declared it a success. I have been tasked with taking the plague to their most recent post in the North at 'Venom Point'," I explained cheerfully. Luckily this was how it had turned out- though it nearly did not.

I had reported to Harris that the plague had actually succeeded, explaining my written results based on the outcome of Tillinghast's plague on my secret second experiment at the Clutch. The testing on Vrykul threw me off-balance when he told me, the last apothecaries who went down there before that having perished horribly, but they used an abomination this time round to 'administer it'. Satisfied with the multiple deaths at Halgrind, combined with my results he had declared it a success and was going to report to Vengeance Landing. All the while he had explained it to me I thought my hard work had been for naught, the plague was going to be mass-produced and put into action straight away- a horrible panic building all the while, I unsure as to how I could get out of this problem.

_"Take this vial to Venom Point, in Dragonblight- they will know what to do with it,"_ he had said, and so I had received their plague as well as instructions to take a bat first thing in the morning. My panic abated, I accepted his gratitude for all my hard work and had to stop myself from shaking at how close I had been to failure and by extension, mass genocide. Now, the plague sat ensconced in my bag, a tacky skull-stoppered vial labelled 'OFFICIAL BLIGHT OF THE RAS- PROPERTY OF C.P. HARRIS', as well as a letter explaining the ingredients and methodology used to produce it.

Tonight i would be rewriting that letter with my own instructions and providing my sample of 'Blight' tomorrow at Venom Point. I silently thanked The Light for the narrow escape I had, thanking whatever deity looked over me that my plan was going to work- hundreds to thousands of lives were going to be saved, even if they did not know it. Looking at the four around me, I found myself experiencing relief that they wouldn't die by my hands.

Swallowing the last of his meal, Zul'khar faced the table- "'Ey- how about dark red for de guild crest, eh?"

* * *

"Hey, Mort I saw the mess outside, looks like they did a real number on…you…" Pausing, I watched as the man in questions dressed in his shirt, the bare of his back visible for a few seconds.

"Cersae, welcome back. How was your venture?" He turned to regard me, unfazed by my bursting into his room unannounced. With great determination, I tried to not let my shock register on my face.

"It went well, I'll tell you about it later," I bade a goodbye and left the room, immediately turning into my own. Closing the door quickly I sat down on my cot, disturbed by what I had just seen- Mort's spine. Several vertebrae had burst through his skin, tearing his back apart in a savage manner by the way they jutted out. Mort's hunch now became quite evident in its origins. The image flashed over and over again in my mind, new detail coming to light with every replay. The muscle attached to his spine was dried and shrivelled, skulking to underneath what little skin still closed around the bones. His back was marked with rotted spots and silhouettes of his ribcage underneath, soon to possibly be exposed like his backbone.

And his face- we had not seen each other in a few days properly, both of us thrown into work of our own as well as my deliberate avoidance of him should he figure out my new secret of recalling my Alchemic teachings. When he had turned around- the skin in his cheek had torn finally, given up any hopes of staying together with the amount of times his jaw dislocated itself. His back teeth and facial bones were now partially visible. Similar spots on his back now decorated his face, though not as advanced in their decomposition. How and _why_ had he changed so much?

"Cers, I'm coming in!" One swift knock at my door startled me and before I could lock it Mort stepped inside, now properly dressed. "Cers, I'm sorry for scaring you," he said gently, closing the door over. I couldn't speak, I merely tried to avoid staring at how different he looked.

"I realise this is a shock to you- but it's not to me, I've been expecting this for a while," he said seriously, eyes boring into mine with understanding. "Though I think being around the plague-making has advanced it a bit quicker than I'd like."

"W-What do you mean?" I asked. He sighed and moved towards me, sitting on the bed to my left. It was a long, strained while before he mustered the courage to speak- and I understand why.

"I'm decomposing. It's something that all Undead are suffering- and rightly so." He sighed once more before sitting up straighter, the movement causing his joints to groan in gross response. "We're not invincible, Cersae. For all we are dead, we are not _unliving_. Many mortal things such as disease, hunger, thirst, suffocation- they have no impact on us, but that comes at a price. Arthas cursed us many, many years ago and we are failing now; when we are needed most. Our race is dying out, Little Girl."

I stared at this man. He, who had interfered and meddled in my life the last few weeks, who had been a friend to me in times gone by, was admitting he was dying. Startled into silence, I let my eyes roam his face. Yes, he looked tired, greyer, older. Upon our reunion in the Plaguelands, I chalked it down to faded memories being recalled wrongly where Mort seemed more sprite and alive three years ago. Looking back, perhaps that was the case and I chose to ignore it, telling myself I must be wrong, Mort can't age or …or…

"The Dark Lady has assigned the Society and Forgotten Shadow Cult to look into fixing our… _situation_. She wishes us to find a solution in Northrend that will prolong the damned race that we are as Forsaken. For the longest time I was against her wishes, believing in that we are unnatural, so we should rescind and fade, allowing nature to balance once more. Now, faced with my second and truest death, I can't help but re-evaluate my thoughts on the matter," he smiled sardonically, more at himself than me. I couldn't believe I was hearing this.

"So the Society's wish to make a plague in Northrend is a ruse? A distraction to lead everyone away from your real goal in Northrend?" I questioned, the thoughts in my mind barely making any sense as the words spilled from my mouth. Mort looked at me, all traces of his smile gone- his face straight and severe.

"No, Little Girl. The Forsaken Plague is still a major threat to all, that fact does not change. Nevertheless, I fear they will use it in such a way as to create a distraction should a method be found that will continue our people. And that's why-" he stood up tall, striding purposefully over to where I stood, trapping me from everything else. "-You have to figure out how to stop them, Cersae. Everyone- even if they don't know it- is counting on you to save their lives. Do you understand the weight of the burden you bear?"

"All too well," I whispered. A part of me- a minute, childish, lonely part of me ached to spill everything to him, to let him know about my success, my memories, my plan and plot. I wanted to tell him how badly close I was at solving this issue, at preventing everyone's deaths and fooling the Apothecaries. But I didn't. The bitter, tormented, hateful side of me that resented all that had happened to me before and after my Reawakening swallowed the Innocent morsel whole, quashing it quickly and disallowing any spatter to remain. He wasn't to know.

"I'm slowly getting there, Mort," I lied, pushing past him gently. I walked to the window, the dirtied glass panes opening up onto the putrid town of New Agamand- the ghostly inhabitants cleaning up their mess. "With every book I read, a new teaching comes to light, a new memories. Sometimes I get whole ones all at once, others just bits-and-pieces. I can't read as fast as I used to, anymore." I turned to him, crossing my arms in unspoken defence of the gaze bearing down on me- two yellow foreboding eyes staring through the darkness of the room. "It will still take some time."

He didn't say anything, he just looked at me, even through me. With a will of iron, I managed to not flinch or fidget beneath that penetrating, knowing stare, fearful I had been caught in the act of lying. To my relief, he made to exit my room in that stalker-ish way of his. Just before the door closed, his voice, ghoulish and scratchy reached my ears.

"Don't make me regret trusting you, Cersae. My wrath is unparalleled."

With his departing reminder not to cross him, I decided that I had made the right decision not to expose my plan to him regarding the plague. Just because he trusted me didn't mean I should trust him, no matter how much panic or concern I felt as the thought of his possible death.

If there was one thing Mort had made sure to teach me in my memories from the Undercity, it was how to manipulate things around me to my will. By the time he learned I had left for Venom Point, I would have firmly implemented my plague into their schemes and plots, unable to turn back when they realise that it only kills vrykul and scourge as I intended it to. Hopefully, at the end of all this not only will I have fooled the Royal Apothecary Society, but I will show Mort exactly how it feels to be toyed and messed with, showing that there was more than one way of doing things- there was my way.


	30. Interlude II- Lieutenant Commander Soren McGreaves

"Aye, I appreciate it, High Comman'er, I'll tell 'is Lordship at once of your aid in t'matter," I bowed my head in deep respect of the man across from the table. After waiting patiently for two days for an appointment with him- most of that filled with spending much needed quality time in the tavern, o' course, I had finally spoken of Fordring's and Irulon's plans to the Leader of the 7th Legion.

_"You have been tasked with bringing them to the Wrathgate, Soren. I would ask no one else of this heavy burden, my friend. May the Light guide you on your journey,"_ Irulon had said as he sent me on my way four days ago.

And here I was, mission successful. After a deliberate false attack on the Wrathgate by the Alliance, it was revealed that there were Frozen Giants- icy versions of the vrykul we had fought at Valgarde- guarding Arthas' portcullis into Icecrown. Nobody had died- immediately retreating after luring out the first defensive line, but there were many casualties. Now knowing what we were facing, The Argent Crusade had lent their services to the forces massing at Angrathar, sending out messengers to others asking for aid. As soon as the armies from here, the Fjords and the Tundra arrived, the main assault would begin, opening up our entrance into Arthas' domain.

It had frustrated me, being sent away from where I was needed- my healing could have helped so many after the preliminary strike, but being asked of my old friend, Trueblade, I had little choice but to comply, not when so much was on the line.

"The Seventh Legion will be there. I shall draw up the supply lists and roster tonight to begin work to move them tomorrow. When will the other forces and batallions arrive?" Wrymbane asked. Sitting in the main chamber of the keep, the fire kept away the wintry chill that grew the further north one travelled- and this wasteland was no exception. Traversing the 'Dragonblight' lands proved a fierce task, and having been raised in Dun Morogh, snow and ice were not new to me, possibly another reason I was chosen to be the Crusade's envoy.

"Within the next seven tae ten days, the forces fae the Tundra have a longer way tae travel than them in the fjords, so once they've all amassed we'll be right as rain tae attack! We are also awaitin' tae hear about the forces fae the Horde who'll be participatin' an' all," I recited, noticing the fleeting look of distaste across the High-Commander's face. "Och, now, enough o' that- we need all the help we kin get fur the attack- the Horde're already buildin' their stronghold aside the Wrathgate an' they deserve a shot at Arthas an' all. We're just waitin' tae hear back fae the envoys we sent there." I poured myself a third mug of ale, appreciating the luscious scent of it as I transferred it from vessel to mug. "I don't doubt that they'll join though, no wantin' tae miss out an' let the Alliance hiv aw the fun, eh?"

"I know, and I know you mean well to include whatever reinforcements we can get, it's just my base instincts to dislike their presence. Perhaps after we take the Wrathgate then my perception will change for the good, or so I would like to think. I would dislike it if you thought less of me, Lieutenant-Commander, for having such unfounded prejudice."

"Naw, yer High-Commandership, I ken ye mean well o' them, having fought alongside some in times gone by, eh?"

"This is true, I shall lay my old judgements to rest. On another note, I hear that the Scarab Lord is en route via the Borean Tundra, or so the gossip goes. She's coming here, hopefully," the dark-skinned man said, taking a long haul from his tankard and placing his boots on the long wooden table separating us. Following suit, I finished mine, not to be outdone by a human in drinking.

"Izzat so?" I smacked my lips, appreciating the fine ale transported to the inn here. Late at night, finishing my work and enjoying a drink with a good companion, my day had ended well, I think. I would travel back to Fordring first thing in the morning, the time too late to start setting out on such a perilous trek. That and there was ale to be finished.

"Yep, and word also has it that-" he paused suddenly, face drawn into a tight expression. Saying nothing for a moment, I watched as he carefully placed his feet on the floor and laying a large hand flat on the desk. Concentrating in a similar fashion, I tried to figure out what had caught his attention all of a-

"Wait- is tha'…is tha' shakin'?" I proclaimed, sitting my tankard down and peering into the ale jug. A few seconds of observation revealed beating ripples forming in the brown liquid. "What's goin' on," whispering, I turned to Halford Wrymbane, his earth-coloured face paling drastically- not a look I liked on this fierce warrior.

"Come with me, McGreaves," he ordered striding out of the office, all friendly banter now forgotten. Quickly following in his wake, I rushed down the stairwell, the ale barely having any effect on my motor skills. Pushing my way through the heavy door after him I nearly became swept off my feet with a large, cold blast of wind.

"Curses! Damnable weather!" I profaned the storm brewing and entered the courtyard, my ears instantly freezing. Devoid of proper outerwear I pressed on, feeling the situation to be grave. Something was very, _very_ wrong. All the bones in my body were shaking- and not with the cold. Seeing the High Commander stomping forward heedless of the gales, I pushed myself to run after him, his figure distantly walking down the hill outside of the keep, soon turning into a run.

"Move, out of the way! What is going on?!" I heard him shout over the wind, people furiously running about around us, calling and screaming. Peering through irritated, watery eyes I found that he had now stopped, staring beyond the gates- and his face wore a mask of horror.

Reaching him, I stood beside a large group of men and women halted in what I'd diagnose to be fear or terror. Following their gazes I finally saw the nightmare that had descended on where we all thought to be safe.

_"Oh, Holy Light, save us."_


	31. The Calm

_Fifteen days after arriving at Westguard.  
_  
"Not getting rid of us now, Ryndan!" Luciya proclaimed happily, her smile infectious and warming.

"I am glad that you and Bartheleus have been hired by the Crusade, I would dislike for us to be separated so soon," Ryndan said, hoisting his full pack onto his shoulder. She laughed at him and bade him a safe journey. With promises of returning with two particular schematics she had asked for, Ryndan walked away, his heart light and looking forward to the reprieve in Dalaran. Nearing the stables he was stopped by none other than Sergeant Edrikson, his near-black curls bouncing unruly as he ran up to his superior.

"Sir! You're leaving today? I'm glad I caught you- could you post these letters for us please, Captain? I wouldn't normally ask, but-"

"Say no more, Sergeant, I'll do just that," Ryndan took the small bundle from the young man's hands tucking it into a free pocket of his travelling pack.

"How long are you away for, sir?" Edrikson asked, walking with his superior to his saddled mount- a brown beauty of a horse.

"A week, possibly two weeks at most, my leave from the past two campaigns was not all used and so I am using this time to tidy up some loose ends until the next step in the grand plan." Affixing his pack securely to his horse, he patted her rump, glad to have such a fine steed to carry him. He missed his own faithful mount- Adia, his charger. She was strong and purposeful, knowing what needed done. Sadly, injured in the Battle for Light's Hope, he had to send her to recover in a livery.

Alongside two other messengers, he was bound for Dalaran as soon as the other two were ready. Turning to the dark-haired man beside him, Ryndan ordered "Don't play up- if you do I've given Commander Ashwood strict instructions to make you fetch the cannonballs out front by yourself as punishment."

" _Sir_! As if I would do anything out of line! _You wound me_ , Captain! I won't step a single toe out of line, sir!" he grinned, his brown curls getting out of control and leaping with each exclaimation.

"Make sure you don't, and keep those other two out of trouble, I know what the three of you are like. In fact, I'd say just keep Jason out of trouble, he's normally the ringleader in your little schemes. Poor Corporal Danila gets roped into it, doesn't he?"

"'Fraid so, sir. Jason is very charismatic and a good mate to me and Danila, he makes it very easy to make something seem like it's a good idea until we're in the middle of the prank." Much to Ryndan's amusement, Edrikson flushed red.

"As I am all too aware, Sergeant," he grinned. Giving his comrade a pat on the shoulder, he nodded his goodbyes and mounted, his two travelling companions signalling their readiness from near the gate.

"Travel safe, Sir. See you in a week!" Edrikson saluted.

"See you in a week, Sergeant, and get that hair cut! I can recommend a good barber should you need one."

"No thank you sir, I fear I won't be able to pull off the style you're sporting. I'll try my luck elsewhere!" and with nary another word, he turned on his heel and jogged out of sight. _Pull off the style I'm sporting?_ Ryndan delicately touched his combed over hair. He quite liked it, having grown used to it in the past two weeks. Why did people find it so silly? His mood darkened as he walked his way to the two women he'd be riding with. Soon enough he had left and began a slow trot towards the keep exit. It was good weather for riding, they'd make good time today and hopefully arrive in the 'Crystalsong Forest' within the next few days. Having been told that this was the only way shy of flying to get to Dalaran, Ryndan had taken the safer route, not knowing how to fly nor wishing to learn. Giving a last few nods and waves to those he knew, he and his companions reached the large portcullis and exited under it.

So they ventured forward, enjoying the summer-like sun shining down on them this day. His two companions- a gnome called Hazel and a scout by the name of Gregson, chatted amongst themselves about gossip and stories from Westguard, frequently referencing Captain Adam's temper with a distinct fondness.

They had met in the tavern last night to discuss last-minute travel plans, and no hitches were found. Pleased, they had all slept well- Ryndan included, though sheer exhaustion from sleeping poorly the last week had probably forced that. Nevertheless, after consuming a hearty breakfast he had readied himself to leave. Ashwood had come to bid him goodbye, wishing him a successful venture. Despite not going to be involved with Cersae anymore, he would still speak with the Warlock from Dalaran about Death Knights and their power source. Westguard began to fade in the distance as they drew further away. Tonight they would hopefully pause on the border of the Grizzly Hills, or even as far as-

"HELP! PLEASE HELP ME!" A rider to the north was charging furiously towards them, his horse in serious danger of tripping and breaking not one, but two necks. "OPEN THE GATES!" Ryndan heard.

"Hold!" Ryndan cried to his companions, charging back towards Westguard, the situation clearly urgent and requiring immediate assistance, not to be halted for a gate to open. "Open the gates!" he shouted at the keep, repeating himself twice more as he drew closer. With relief, the portcullis started to ride up, signalling that they had heard him.

The gate reached its peak, open and inviting and they waited the few moments it took for the rider to travel the path. Without stopping to thank Ryndan, he charged on through, a wild look on his face when he passed. Unsure that he was needed, he watched for a moment before rejoining the two women on their journey _. Was that blood he'd seen all over him?_ Despite their easy start, a feeling of unease settled in the paladin's stomach as they drew away from Westguard once more. Even the ladies had stopped in their banter, the image of the disturbed man firmly on their thoughts. Their pace was no longer spring-filled, but despondent and troubled.

"Captain! _Captain!_ " behind him he saw Sergeant Edrikson riding at a speed akin to the messenger towards them. Reaching level, he caught his breath.

"Sir! You- you are to return im-immediately, all of you, the C-Commander orders it!" And so they did without question.

"Commander!" He called, reaching the woman in question. By the statue in the centre, awaiting the news the messenger just brought, gathered the entire town. Haven been taken straight to Captain Adams, no one had been privy to the message, it seems- except for Ashwood. "What has happened?" Looking around she swiftly and cautiously pulled him to the side, her expression not only severe, but …scared also.

"I was just with the Captain when that letter arrived. I'm afraid we're going to have to cut your leave short, Firesworn," her voice was desperately trying not to tremble with what Ryndan could only guess to be shock.

"Sir? What's happened?" he asked, torn between wanting to know and wishing they had just kept riding on towards Dalaran. Turning her eyes to him, her next words made Ryndan's blood freeze.

"Wintergarde has fallen- Naxxramas has arrived."


	32. Wintergarde

_Two weeks after arriving at Wintergarde_

He tore the helmet from his head, the cold winter air stinging harshly on his face, both grateful and hateful of the bitter wake up call it provided. His aching chest produced large clouds of breath and watching them for a moment, he pondered how easily such breaths could be halted. The pit in his stomach grew.

They were barely holding ground. Over fifteen days since they had arrived and little to no progress had been made with their situation. Starting out strong with the arrival of the Alliance Expedition and Crusade forces combined, Wintergarde reared up strongly against their invading foes, seemingly making advances and small victories. Many daring rescues were made of the citizens trapped in Lower Wintergarde- the majority even returned alive. Slaying and killing, tearing down Scourge one by one, the allied armies fought day and night- Ryndan on the dusk-til-dawn shifts. He slew dozens in the first week. Double that the following, but their numbers did not diminish. The frustration had fuelled Ryndan for a week, perhaps longer before burning out, leaving a tired, near-defeated man- the morale of the people around him in a similar state or worse.

He just couldn't see a way out of this, not without divine intervention. Rotating his neck and arms, the paladin attempted some small therapy on the aches and knots in his battered body. In dire need of sleep, he drudged up the hill towards the inn of Wintergarde. Inside was a warm environment, glowing with firelight, the aroma of freshly baked bread and succulent meat roasting giving the overall impression of peace, as if nothing was wrong. The broken bodies of men and women in recovery quickly eradicated that idea though.

Turned into one of many makeshift hospitals, the inn housed the most dire- those who were not hardy enough with their injuries and ailments to brave a Healer's tent outside. The winter grew worse the further north they were and this did not bode well for his Crusaders.

Despite sheltering the decrepit and infirmed, the inn still functioned as their source of food distribution, the kitchens working doubly hard to cater for so many. The scouts and hunters had upped their game, he knew, to provide for so many mouths as a bedraggled and drained Jerewyn attested to after one of her many four-day hunts, with barely one day's rest between. They hauled in a goodly amount, the number of which they had to feed growing distressingly less with each passing day. Grabbing his own bowl of stew from the line, Ryndan walked back outside to eat it, the contrasting gelid air making his tasteless dinner seem extra hot today. The forges were in full flare, the smithies tirelessly making sure each individual was suitably equipped with working gear and weaponry- out of those that had died, none of it had been due to shoddy workmanship on their armour.

He himself had personally witnessed seventeen deaths, each one fading into the last. As always, the initial shock blends into acute numbness, the detachment from emotion allowing him to command and conduct his regiment and soldiers to the best he can in this situation- a handy and dire trick he had learned early on in his career. Should he survive, the guilt and grief will consume him later, but even with his void state, the tendrils of dread and misery at their predicament prodded at the very edges and corners of his mind, daring him to think and believe the worse. Cannonfire, orders shouted and pain-filled moans distracted him for the most part.

Their mental strength grew less with each piece of bad news he received; the latest regarding the very source of the never-ending Scourge waves. A necrolord had been reported from the very underbelly of Lower Wintergarde- the Scourge not just filing out from the dread citadel above, but from Wintergarde's very crypts. While the news was not so affecting of himself, the citizens and legionnaires of the town were in perpetual grief and mourning, forced to slay those they knew, those they believed to be buried in sanctity and peace. Now their deaths were disturbed and cursed, one of the worse, most unforgivable atrocities to be cast on any unfortunate soul caught in such a state, to Ryndan's mind. There was no excuse, reason nor repentance for something so heinous, and that was one of the few things driving Ryndan in his defence, that not only was he aiding Wintergarde, but he was putting these poor people to rest once more.

But that did not halt the problem. The necrolord was immortal, unkillable, and they had no way around that.

"Dan." Finishing the last of his stew, Ryndan watched as McGreaves sat beside him in his corner of the road. Situated only a ways behind the inn, it allowed him a 'private' vantage point of the traffic going to and from the building, who arrived via gryphon and what state the armour was in that the forges received. The overall mood was heavy in the air of Wintergarde.

"Sir. Care for the last of my bread?" he held out the crust, untouched by himself, his chapped lips and barely-full stomach not wishing for it. Even after all of his years in the military, Ryndan's palate never got used to the salty biscuits provided with his dinner. McGreaves waved it away with thanks, his face as tired and grim as Ryndan felt. While they had been happy to see each other again, the circumstance of their reunion made it sour.

"Got some good and bad news for ya Dan," he started gravely. "One, you're being pr'moted to Lieutenant Commander. Congratulations" His felicitation was hollow and dire.

"Thank you, to what do I owe the pleasure of this? Is there a round going on already?" He couldn't muster the normal graces and humility that should be given, however the whole ordeal was without ceremony as it was. Normally promotions were given out in a timely order- those who were to receive one gaining it all at once and Ryndan was fairly sure that it wasn't due for some time yet. The only other time promotions were handed out like this was to fill someone else's shoes, in this case a fallen superior. Ryndan unconsciously tensed.

"Naw, you're up for promotion onyway, but ye're receivin' it early so I kin tell ya the bad news, steel yersel'." Taking a deep breath, McGreaves grasped the knees of his britches, out of armour until the blow to his head from yesterday was deemed fine. Ryndan disliked this very much, but braced his nerves nevertheless. "Dan, the Crusade arenae comin' to our aid, they're stayin' oot at the Wrathgate."

Ryndan froze still in the wake of this information, determined he had heard wrong. That couldn't be right, the Dawn wouldn't forsake them against- against _Naxxramas?_! Would they? Closing his eyes, the numb state he had fallen into violently melted to give way to rising anger. First the Kirin Tor, now his very own… The one thread of hope he held snapped in less than a moment.

"Why. Why has the Highlord seen fit to not send what could be the turning point in _this hellhole_!" His voice shook but he was adamant not to raise it. Rationality still held a small amount of control on his speech and Ryndan knew it wasn't McGreaves fault that they weren't coming. And this information wasn't allowed to filter down through the ranks either, he surmised, otherwise he could have been told with his Captain rank. Judging by the tight expression on his face, the dwarf was having the same problem accepting this information.

"All we ken is that that is their decision. We cannae do onymore," he whispered, his own gruff voice straining to remain calm, knuckles turning white under the stress. "Receive yer new trimmin's fae one o' the tailors. Your new duties'll be assigned tae ye in due course." Standard military procedure in light of a promotion, but Ryndan knew that given the state of their current situation, his duties would remain unchanged as he was already covering nearly as much work as the Commander herself. He dreaded to think how she was taking the news of no backup from their own. Daresay, he imagined her slaughtering a goodly number of Scourge today. If he hadn't already been on duty and worn out because of which, he would be back into there to vent his anger. But no, reason won and told him to sleep, or at least try to. Maybe there was one last vestige of hope left-

"And what of the Horde?" An envoy had arrived two days ago from the Forsaken camp nearby, and while the general feeling of the Expedition and Seventh Legion was to distrust them, they knew that their help was needed; more so than ever now.

"The envoy is due tae depart, I hink, if he's no left already. A nice fella, stayed to heal a few an' all- a priest. Shame he didnae join the Dawn, coulda used skills like his. But aye, he stated that there were a number o' Horde lookin' tae help out there and even when, or if, we take on Naxxramas," he laughed bitterly. Given they couldn't even fend off the forward vanguard what chance did they stand against the dread necropolis devastating from high above?

* * *

_Same Day- Wintergarde._

Alexander awoke from his sleep, unaware that he had fallen into a dream-filled state. He shifted, the uncomfortable position of his rest being slouched up against a stack of empty crates. Finishing a quick stretch, he allowed a recollection of t _hat dream_. It had been long since it had last plagued him, his business in the south keeping him busy and tired enough to forget. Until now.

He rubbed his face wearily with two hands, feeling so much older than his eighteen years. No one, only Randall, his mentor, knew the truth of his power's origin, of his past. His fire-ridden nightmare ebbed away back into the crevasses of his mind. He sighed, slowly beginning to observe the quiet goings-on of Wintergarde Keep. The light was settled between day and night, dusk creeping its way into darkness. Heavy clouds moved overhead bringing a cold wind with them.

Why now?

He knew why, it was because of her. Her hidden terror at his abilities, believing it had gone unnoticed. Her with her fair skin. With her lingering voice, edging its way into the very corners of his mind, echoing in his slumber. Never before had he met such a person with life irradiating from every part of her body. She had hair like flames and an ironic pyrophobia. That look of disguised fear on her face floated in the front of his mind's eye when he had manipulated a small flame oh-so-easily; he didn't like it. The scar decorating her face and neck was a grim reminder of some untold tragedy, but it made her even more captivating. Her dynamic nature alone was enough to draw him in, to bring anyone to like her from the off and her scarred skin only added fuel to that particular fire. And she was the first to show fear at his abilities since he himself assimilated them. He really didn't like that fact.

A frown formed on his features. She was a distraction from his purpose, an obstacle in his way. He had one task to perform and he wouldn't allow her to interfere, intentional or not.

Deciding that ignoring her presence was the best course of action he stood from his unconventional sleeping spot and made way to the outhouse. Judging by the faint cries and noises, the battle was still waging at the front of the keep.

"Hey there, Junior!" Uttering a small curse, his frown deepened as Fate determined a separate path from his own plans while laughing at his attempts of control. In a poor try to hasten his walk, she caught up easily. Cursing those long legs of hers, he slowed to allow her to fall in step as she literally bounced next to him. With great difficulty he managed to avert his gaze from the only other things bouncing next to him. Resolved to ignore her or not, biology was still dominant.

"Why so grouchy-looking, there?" Her deformed face edged its way to the corners of his vision and an involuntary glance revealed a curious-looking Luciya. Not even awaiting an answer from him, she opened her mouth again.

"Lookie here, I managed to design those arrows that Jerry wanted- you've met Jerry, haven't you? She's really nice, you should talk to her." Alexander doubted he would unless necessary- she had approached him before about her, and _that_ had ended unexpectedly. "Anyway, she asked me to design some new equipment for her to make the hunting quicker and I came up with something really radical! Can you guess what it was?" _Khadgar's Whiskers_ , was she always this talkative? A couple of scrolls of parchment abruptly presented themselves before him, any drawings and scrawl on it illegible and indecipherable to all but the author it seems.

"No, I cannot. Enlighten me." They had long since reached the outhouse, Luciya's chattering disallowing him entry- or privacy. He admired her elegant fingers as they rolled the plans back up, silently watching as she continued her monologue.

"Well, I successfully designed those Frost-infused traps, right? Oh, you don't. Well, I did- back at Valgarde- so I thought, hey, why not put the same magic into something a bit more mobile? And then it hit me! _Arrow_ s." 'Successfully' perhaps wasn't his first choice in words. Destructive failures, to be more precise- he'd heard the story from Bartheleus.

"I was thinking- what if I did that with fire? How amazing would that be?!" Alexander suppressed a startled jerk. More stunned at her voluntary involvement with fire rather than her ridiculous idea, he turned to view her fully. From the first time they had crossed eyes at Westguard, he had been captivated by her. Today beneath the grey sky and dark shadow cast by their foe, it was no different.

Sharing nearly the same height, take a couple of inches for her, he was almost eyelevel with her face. Her own amber eyes were large and bright, flecks of white reflected by the snow around in them. Her slender face was lit up with a glorious smile and her whole being practically illuminated with childlike glee. Her hair, thrown hastily back in a tie in her excited mood, fell uncaring around her cheeks and shoulders, contrasting resplendently against her milky skin.

He was filled with an unspeakable awe.

"Amazing," he replied. Her face faltered, though only briefly, before shining again. He watched with a fond amusement as she rattled off the technicalities and complications involved in such a 'radical' idea, as she had dubbed it. The words 'explosions' and 'gun powder' filtered their way through the description, the rest lost in a translation of an engineer's babble. It hadn't gone unnoticed that she finally wore something long-sleeved, but it didn't hide her long arms as she waved them about enthusiastically clearly feeling the need for such dramatic movements when advertising her latest brainchild. All he could think about was pushing her up against the wall right now- like he had done three weeks ago when she had first approached him. They hadn't spoken about it, and he didn't mention it. 'It was an accident, I was caught in the moment.' Excuses like that had flown from her round lips and he forcibly agreed, disliking being diverted from his mission. He was an ambassador for the Kirin Tor; he needed to keep a level head. Or so he told himself.

Admiring her like this he found it hard to believe this woman was supposedly his senior. He found himself slightly envious of her passion, a small part of him wishing to embrace it. Even so, the young mage shouldn't have found himself surprised at agreeing to help her with this project when asked to, not when he should be back on the defensive with the rest. Despite sending for request from the Kirin Tor, the message received immediately from Dalaran was that no such aid could be spared- they were concentrating the majority of their efforts in the war against Malygos, the one he had been sent away from.

"If you don't mind then, I'll just need you to do some fire-infusing. You know, like the other mage did for my trap?" The thought of opting out never even occurred to him he realised with hindsight. "So, you've been around gunpowder before then?" she enquired cautiously. Silently nodding, he vowed to never reveal that the opposite was true- he hadn't been near gunpowder in his living memory. But she didn't need to know that.

Seemingly content with her received answer, she gave one last grin – one that held promise of mischief and danger combined- she turned tail and swayed away from him. _That_ was extremely distracting. When she was out of view, a breath released from his chest. He had heard of the phrase 'a whirlwind passing through' but this was his first experience of such a phenomenon and it had left him slightly grasping for air.

Finally allowed the space to relieve himself, he entered the outhouse and reviewed the last ten minutes of his life. Two things became evident:-

First, he was very sure that he had resolved to ignore her presence if it proved to be distracting.

Second, he was even surer that his resolution had dissolved by the very plague of his life within moments of its creation. This wasn't entirely how he'd pictured it.

However, a third epiphany presented itself, and he allowed a small smile to himself.

With an absolute, undeniable certainty, Alexander was more than resolved that he would do whatever he could to see that joyous expression on her face again.

* * *

"You're exploiting that boy, you know," Bart commented, not caring to hide the disapproving tone underlying his accusation. Luciya merely shrugged, braiding her hair tightly over one shoulder, its purpose now served. She walked to her table, laying out her plans as she did. Her cheeks still felt flushed- from the cold outside, probably. Definitely, in fact, judging by the way her burn scar itched.

"I use what connections I can to obtain my goals, you should know this by now," she admonished. "He's not the first and I sincerely doubt that he'll be the last," she threw him a victorious grin, happy at the progress made today. She fluently repositioned her toolbox, currently doubling as a paperweight to hold her design prints for the new arrow. The roughly made bolt shaft she held was hollow and hers for the tinkering, all she had needed was that boy's cooperation and her project was officially kick-started. She did feel a little sorry for playing on his obvious feelings for her, but he made it _far_ too easy. Until he had looked at her like that…

"You're a heartbreaker, Luci. It'll catch up to you one day and I for one am unsure as to whether I dread or welcome it," Bart said. Settled in a disused room, four large tables had been quashed together allowing a large workspace for the pair. Few disturbed them here- Bart's own designated project involving template patterns atop rolled-out bolts of _Frostweave Cloth_. He had ranted and admired about the density of it, the properties of the fabric and how suitable it was against the cold of the north. Such was his enthusiasm that all scraps and extra material found was to be given to him directly for the creation of frost- and cold-resistant material for the Crusaders to the north. Several nearly-ready cloaks and shirts lay nearby. He would be starting on their new tabard designs shortly as well, judging by his orders.

"You don't need to worry about me, old man, you know I can handle anything that comes my way," she said off-handed, never taking her eyes from her designs. "Speaking of which-I'm going to be leaving soon; Favian-Fordring, whatever his name is, has asked for my engineering expertise. As soon as I get the all-clear I'll head out to him."

Strong hands paused in their task, "What for?"

"I'm not sure, the letter didn't outline it, just to bring my tools and knowledge," she absent-mindedly tapped her temple, manoeuvring her spanner into her mouth to leave her hands free to fiddle with the bolt. " That's why I want this project finished for Jerry." she muffled, "If I can mass-produce enough for her to last until I return, I'll be happier." Bartheleus remained silent, disliking this new information of her upcoming departure. Knowing him like she did, Luciya sensed this and wanted to soothe her friend. "I'll be fine, you know I'll never go without food or shelter. I can take care of myself."

"I doubt that."

"Hmm?" she took a pencil from behind her ear, editing a small adjustment to the measurement of the drawing.

"I said 'I doubt that'," Bart repeated louder. Far at the back of a mainly abandoned building in the settlement, the words echoed around the dimly lit room. "In fact, I recall such a time when you were so far out of control with grief that-"

"Bart, that's enough," she said harshly, mouth now void of tools. Her hands were now planted firmly on the wooden surface to save herself from shaking. "You have no right to bring that up," she growled.

Silence and a hard stare between the two communicated all their frustrations with each other, before Bart looked away with a sigh.

"You just put yourself out there so readily, I don't want to see you hurting again." She rolled her eyes slightly, irritated and went back to her plans. "Not when you're so much better than this lifestyle." She ignored him. He put his fabric-cutters down and followed the edge of the table, ending up within arms' reach of the woman.

"Luci- it's been nearly two years, can't you give up this charade now? You don't have to prostitute yourself anymore to deal with this." In the eight years they had known each other, Luciya hated it when he tried to use passive logic on her. Her mood from being thrown such intense, wanting looks from Alexander hadn't helped her mood either- she hated being taken by surprise. And she did _not_ want to have this conversation.

"Bart, please stop talking."

"Luciya, you're thirty-one, and in the middle of a war, try to live for yourself, instead of pushing your grief to one side by sleeping with anyone who'll jump into your bed- or that you'll jump into." His voice grew softer, edging slowly closer to her.

"Bart-"

"Sam has been dead for _two years_ , Luciya, it's time to let go-" He didn't even want to defend himself from the slap she gave him. Or the punch to the chest, or the knee to the stomach or the barrage of fury-driven attacks she threw at him, venting out the frustration and hurt held in for so long, but when she collapsed against his chest, energy and frustration spent, he was relieved that it was the first sign of acceptance she had shown.

"Please, Luci, let me take care of you," he whispered, allowing his voice to carry a fraction of the emotion burst from his heart. She froze in his arms, any kind of this talk closing her up. Not this time, he wouldn't let her. Gripping his arms tighter around her he stooped, burying his head onto her slender shoulder, breathing in her unique scent of oil, soap and woman.

"Luciya, you know how I feel about you. All of these years- you've ignored it, and I let you because of Sam. I thought you were happy. But when she died, you were grieving and I gave you the space. It is time now. Please." He stepped back, taking her startled face into his large hands. Delicately he rubbed her cheeks with his thumbs, savouring the flushed skin. One side was pink and smooth, the other a violent red, stretching stiffly and creating contours unnatural to the human body. She was beautiful in his eyes, and always would be.

"I-I can't, Bart," she whispered. He supressed the frustrated sigh at her inevitable response.

"You can, you're just afraid to try." He lowered his head, allowing their foreheads to touch, their breath mingling. For all the men and women he had slept with, none had made his heart beat as fast as Luciya had. She had bounced into his destitute life when he entered the brothel, nowhere else to turn, making his existence seem just a little more important. She had guided him through the toughest times, this girl, this woman who was twenty years his junior. Holding his hand as he grew to accept that yes, he was now a prostitute but that did not mean loss of his identity. Tightly he had held on to her, and he had yet to let her go, even though she walked far ahead of him in life.

Ever so gently he lowered his mouth to hers, savouring the taste of her plump lips, her eyes closing with contact. A small kiss at first, to gauge her reaction- it was desire. He knew fine well that love and lust did not go hand in hand, but he wanted her to feel and see him as a man, despite his physical profession. Capturing her mouth once more she moaned into him, her hands sliding up his to reach his neck. He caressed her bottom lip with his own, nibbling ever so gently, enough to make her back arch into him. Her body moulded to his perfectly, just like he had envisioned. Needing more of her taste, Bart increased the intensity of their liplock, asking entrance with his tongue, growing elated when she granted access. Naturally, she tasted divine. Their bodies were grinding against each other, practiced in the art of pleasure; Bart pushed her backwards and lifted her onto the table, standing between her legs, scarcely breaking contact. He was scared to, in case he awoke from this dream that he had envisioned on so many occasions.

Moaning into his mouth still she pulled him towards her, pressing her chest against his, heaving with wanton desire and wrapping her legs around his thighs. Her hands soon took over, scrambling to untuck his shirt, roaming freely under it over his skin. His muscles flexed wherever she passed, shivering in the delight that this was Luciya's hands on his body. He was growing harder with desire, but didn't push the subject, content to explore her with his own fingers.

He released her swollen mouth and attended her neck, sucking gently. His hands held her shoulders, sliding down her arms over goosebumps and caressing her waist. Her sounds of pleasure were projected right into his ear and he loved it. Nipping at her shoulder, he slid his long hands underneath her work shirt, revelling in the smooth skin that met him. He couldn't get enough. He massaged up her back, around her sides, under her bust, determined to know every curve of this woman he had loved for so long. She was breathing heavily above him, while he planted kisses all along her collar bone, taking greater care with the marred skin spread across her left shoulder. He moved his bodily expedition south, reaching the delicious mounds that tormented him daily from his height. Resting his cheek on one breast, his hands paused at her lower back; he listened to her rampaging heartbeat. Her own hands threaded in his hair in an effort to puppet him, her head thrown backwards in pleasure. If she were not already sitting, her knees may have buckled.

Taking his time to admire her unguarded form, he fell deeper in love with her, wanting to see her like this every day of his life by his hands. He moved said limbs slowly around to her stomach- it retracting at the touch. Ghosting upwards he arrived at the summit of her breasts, delicately touching just underneath- enough to tease. She drew a sharp breath whenever he drew close to touching them wholly beneath her shirt, Bart taking great pains to make sure she was at the height of her excitement. Her arousal was evident by its aroma, making him dizzy with desire as it grew stronger. Unable to contain himself any longer, he raised his hands higher and cupped her breasts, her nipples hard on his palms and firm in his hold eliciting a cry from the woman at his sensual mercy. _Elune,_ she was amazing.

"Oh Alexander…"

Bart was two feet away from her before she realised he had stopped his ministrations. Face red and breathing heavy, she looked at him in confusion, missing his physical presence and warmth in front of her.

"Really Luciya? After all this time I've loved you, and I can finally have you- and you envision another man? A _boy_ , in fact?!" His voice rose, anger overtaking any desire he held for the woman not moments ago.

"Bart I-" she started, realising what she had done, those golden-brown eyes wide with regret.

"Just don't, Luci. _Just don't,_ " he was all but yelling, Luciya flinching at his tone. He paced up and down a few feet, in any attempt to calm his nerves; it was failing miserably. She stood up, legs trembling a little. For the love of Nordrassil he could still _smell_ her desire.

"I'm sorry, Bart, I wasn't even thinking-"

"No! You weren't!" he slammed a fist onto his worktable, sewing needles and spools flying off at the attack. His breathing was heavy- but no longer with lust. Temper was rapidly gaining ground and he had to leave. He wouldn't hurt her. He couldn't even look at her. Shaking, he pushed passed the slim woman standing agape and threw open the door. His strong back was the last thing she saw of him. She couldn't believe it. After all of this time resisting him and she had screwed up. She had upended everything they had and could have had, with two words. An angry sigh escaped her, the tension and disbelief at her stupidity only to be vented by wiping every item off her worktable violently. It worked for the most part, the loud crashing barely sating her desire for destruction right now.

"Luciya? What happened, are you alright?" Ryndan appeared at her elbow, the engineer not even bothering to hide the mess she was in. She didn't care why he was here, but it was a great comfort right now to be with someone she didn't hold sexual tension with or was lying to upfront.

"I've messed up bad, Ryndan. Really bad." And then the tears finally flowed.

* * *


	33. Jeopardy

A scarf tightened around a neck. A mouth blew cold breaths. A horse whinnied to the tug of her reins. Venomspite loomed.

Lynara stretched hard upon dismounting, bones and muscles stiff with exertion. The mission to speak with the Alliance Forces went well and overall the priest was pleased. Late at night, rubbing a stiff back awkwardly, it was decided that bed was a very clever idea and some rest would do a mountain of good for a tired mind- even if it _was_ in this Forsaken hellhole. The tell-tale stench of Undead was overwhelming upon Lynara's return- something which had _not_ been missed at Wintergarde. Unused to such dilapidated and foul atmospheres, Lynara was a little dizzy until readjusting. Activity was abound and 'people' scurried back and forth, grumbling and grovelling about their progress (or digress, judging by one passing Junior Apothecary's wail). The New Blight Strain was welcomed with open arms here and they had Cersae to thank for that. The girl with colourless hair and lifeless eyes. The girl who confused and perplexed Lynara abound. The girl who did not make any sense whatsoever. The girl who stood with her small back to the town, speaking in low tones with one Apothecary Levine just beyond the town inn. Too exhausted to even pretend to ignore growing curiosity, Lynara stabled the horse, collected the leather bag attached to the saddle and strode purposefully forward. Nearing the pair quietly- for their conversation was not private, otherwise it would not be held so publicly- Lynara listened intently.

"…was the High Executor thinking?" the Apothecary gritted, clearly annoyed. Her yellow eyes were shifty, but did not notice the eavesdropper nearby. Changing vantage point, it was clear to see that Cersae was listening with an equal, if not greater concentration than Lynara to the Forsaken woman. Continuing in her rant, Levine said, "we can't very well have those Scarlet Onslaught idiots being raised by their priests- or worse as Scourge!" _Resurrection?_ Lynara's interest piqued further at their discussion, tiredness on hold for now.

A dire sounding situation- the Onslaught foothold to the west of them was causing trouble, however with them holding one flank and Naxxramas shadowing the other, Venomspite was in a sore position- indeed and the Horde knew it. Despite being caught in the middle, it was clear that if Wintergarde fell wholly, the Forsaken settlement was next and then who knew where. The adventurers and travellers did their Horde leaders and guilds proud in their response; travelling from the Tundra and flying in from Dalaran. It was clear that this was one time where cooperation was vital for survival between the Alliance and themselves. And, Lynara hoped, it would be a seed for future relations, hence why the elf had volunteered to act as diplomatic envoy to the Alliance Stronghold. There it had been conveyed that a goodly number resided in Venomspite, eagerly awaiting the chance to slaughter the Scourge and deal a blow to The Lich King without the humans feeling under by them. It had worked and tomorrow Lynara would report to the forty or so volunteers that they could safely attend the Carrion Fields without fear of rebuttal or conflict from Wintergarde.

It would only be when Naxxramas fell could the Forsaken deal with the zealous and fanatical clan lying at New Hearthglen, or so Lynara thought.

"No, that is not an option at all. That's the least of what we need right now, more power for Arthas," Cersae stated gravely, her thin arms crossed in deep thought, though, why her hands were clutching her dreadful outer robe's sleeves so tightly, Lynara didn't know. Was she _trembling?_

"No, I'm in total agreement with you, we have to do something about the corpses- the High Executor is sending in ballista fodder after ballista fodder just to rid of a few measly humans, and while we lose numbers, there's are also dying only sometimes." Levine voiced, her besmirched face bobbing with every raspy word. Just looking at her made Lynara long for a bath of scented oils and hot water to feel clean. A shuffling movement brought back attention and the apothecary drew a vial of something nasty-looking from her worktable. Cersae flinched ever so slightly, unnoticed by her companion. The strain on her face grew with each passing moment, Lynara noted with concern.

"I have just the thing," Levine grinned, gazing longingly at the concoction like a beggar offered a feast of rich food. The wild look in her eyes bespoke her intentions, "let's take this freshly created blight and test it on our _friend_ here." Creaking, she craned her neck to a poor whimpering soul in a cage behind them, and Lynara's heart faltered- they wouldn't actually…?

"Is that a wise idea, handling this so openly when it could-" Cersae started. Lynara could only wonder that she meant the Blight could be toxic to any Undead in the area.

"No muss, no fuss, no returning enemies," ignoring or unhearing the girl, Levine stalked slowly towards the man, holding the vial in clear view. Unstopping it, the two unmoving onlookers shared a mutual feeling of dread, though only one acted upon it.

Cersae stepped forward, seemingly concerned for her own welfare. "Vicki, I don't think that you should-!" Horror averted Lynara's eyes to the polluting of the prisoner as he was doused in the liquid plague. Revulsion overwhelmed the priest, and using a hand on both stomach and mouth, it took all the will Lynara possessed to not disgorge the measly meal eaten on the road back.

But the wail of gruesome terror never came. The cry of grievous torture was absent. The expectant squelching of a mutated corpse in transition did not enter reach Lynara's long ears.

"What the-"

Daring a glance up, the prisoner seemed soggy and wet but otherwise unharmed. The other alchemist merely stared in wonder or despair at the gunge-covered man, mouth agape and shock plainly evident. Only the Undead was moving in light of this.

"Schlemiel!" Levine cried, her skeletal hands clenching and opening rapidly in temper- the tempo of her gestures in time with Lynara's fast-beating heart at the scare. "SCHLEMIEL!"

"Huh?" A frightened looking thing appeared from behind the inn, his own hands wringing at his superior's fury. Rightly so, Lynara thought, as she rounded on him immediately.

" _Apparently_ you FLUBBED this batch of blight! What do you have to say for yourself?!" she shouted, not caring to lower her voice- not that it mattered, few took notice of the conflict. Such happenings were not uncommon in the Society, it seemed. A few verbal fights had broken out in the first few days upon their arrival at Venomspite, but very little drama had occured since. Until now. 'Schlemiel' stammered, unprepared for the woman's wrath, eyes flitting quickly between table and man.

"B-but I-I f-followed your in-instructions pr-precisely! I er… S-sorry?" he managed to splutter. Lynara almost felt sorry for him, beginning to think it wasn't his fault, judging by the silent bystander in all of this, still unable to tear her gaze from the uninjured- yet bewildered- test subject. _Was it really a poor batch?_

"Sorry? _SORRY?!_ Here's sorry for you!" The remainder of the vial's contents danced in the air as she flung it in the general direction of the whimpering apothecary- and this time, Lynara wasn't prepared to avert sight. The disgusting dissolution of bones and sinew steamed into the air, the foul smell knocking Lynara's senses back horrifically and the man's robes disintegrated in the acidic leftover that was Schlemiel. A couple of passersby turned to survey the mess, but those who had witnessed it could only stare at the marked ground.

He hadn't even had time to cry out. Small mercies, the priest didn't wonder. He would have no lament.

"Huh, I guess it is working! That's odd… Hey! I'm going to need a cleanup and a new assistant over here!" she called, unfazed and unmoved by her off-handed murder. The conveniently placed graveyard nearby would be receiving another tombstone tonight. As 'cleanup' commenced it soon became apparent that the third witness had disappeared, and Lynara wanted to speak with her.

* * *

"It worked, it actually worked." My legs shook as I sat down on the stool, my worktable and arms no longer able to support me. The human was unharmed, but the apothecary had dissolved horrendously in front of our eyes. It was _amazing_! "Oh thank The Light," I breathed a sigh of relief and lay my head to rest on my arms. For all the calculations I had performed, to see it actually work (or not!) in this case-

"Are you sure it's The Light we should be thanking?" Swinging round I was face-to-face with a blonde-haired, know-it-all-look-on-her-pale-face priestess who was closing the door to my small lab carefully. And then bolting it.

"What? What do you mean?" I asked tentatively, unable to hide my anxiety. Her presence disturbed my already frazzled nerves- the experiment that Vicki performed tonight was impromptu and I may have died on the spot if not already in such a state already when she turned on the Scarlet prisoner. All my work amounting up to that point was purely theoretical and based on telling an intricate web of lies; if it had failed at that point, my scheming would have been for nothing, and many would have been in danger- myself included, I daren't think.

"What I mean," she drawled, taking small steps towards me, "is that are you sure it's The Light who is responsible for this… _malfunction_ in the plague? Or perhaps, is someone close to it actually responsible? Perhaps, its creator?" She gave me a very direct, pointed look, stopping within a few feet of me. How did she figure it out? What was she going to do? If she reported it and people believed her, my work, the plague- it would be rewritten and…and-!

The icy tendrils started from my stomach. **_No, I won't let it be jeopardised._** I felt them slowly creeping their way up to my chest, one wrapping around my still heart. **_She knew?_** The shards spread into my arms. **_There were people counting on me- Mort. Ryndan. Luci and Bart. I wouldn't let them down_**. I pushed myself to standing, all the world around me dissolved, only focussing the person in front of me. **_I had invested too much into this. The decision was easy- in that there was none._** All it would take would be to snap her neck. Hidden by a thick scarf, but nothing I couldn't handle, I'm sure. My fingers were twitching, aching to feel the pulse of her blood stop at my hand. **_She knew? I couldn't risk it_**. Even if I possessed a smaller frame than her, it would be no task to just reach out and –

"It's a good thing you've done, Cersae," she spoke, examining the many unusued apparatus on the shelves, her long fingers delicately drifting over them. Her back was to me, it was simple enough to, wait- a _good thing_?

"I can't make sense of a lot of all the fact, but I do know you're doing a good thing with this situation you've created." The wire of bloodlust curling around my insides receded immediately, halting at her statement.

" _This situation_?" I echoed, hoping, praying that she did truly understand what I was doing.

"Yes, this…undermining you're doing. I didn't trust you at first-" that didn't surprise me…she turned, her pointed face staring me down. A look passed over her, a strange one, like she was trying to focus upon something far away. "You're trying to stop the Society, aren't you?" she stated blankly.

Relief. It flooded through me from my mind to my fingertips- even my legs threatened to give way. Relief that someone else knew, the burden was no longer mine alone. Mort was here, within Venomspite, taking care of the Scarlet Onslaught, called up after news spread like wildfire about the arrival of Naxxramas. But even then, he had figured out quickly that I had left on my own terms to venture here, to implement my plague. He had barely said two words to me, instead investing his time and energy into the defence of his people from the self-righteous crusaders from New Hearthglen. His presence was missed by me, but in my pride I refused to approach him first, adamant I was doing a good thing, I am. And here was someone telling me those exact words that I didn't even know I needed to hear- 'I know what you're doing, and I agree with it.' It suddenly hit me how important Lynara's opinion was to me, and that it was her saying this that made it all the more…acceptable. While I would believe it from the other Durotar Defenders, hearing it from this priest, in all of her holy doctrines and morals, just gave me that missing approval, that I wasn't doing something incredibly stupid. My quiet, dormant doubts that had begun to stir fled. Words began to tumble from my mouth.

"Not insomuch. I'm…diverting their path while helping everyone else in the long run." Careful soon fell out the window, I couldn't stop the flow. "The Scourge will still be eradicated without the Society having a weapon of mass slaughter at their availability. I'm still aiding the Royal Apothecary Society, while defending the potential lives that could have been lost." I shrugged, my revelations kept to myself. She studied me quietly, unnerving under her unwavering gaze, like she was judging or looking through me. Or both.

"Apothecary Levine seems to think that the Scarlet Onslaught prisoner was protected by his Holy Practices and Faith- is this the case?" she said after a while, every word still said gracefully and with her strong voice and confidence that I envied.

"No, it is not," I refuted, appalled at the idea. It was laughable! "That is not how biology- or The Light- work, I'm afraid." I sat down, my legs tired from many hours of standing at the alchemy table today. "The Light, it's- well, it's is a philosophy, a devotion to actively pursuing virtues rather than a passive worshipping in favour of divine boons and interventions such as immunity from ailment. While it is harnessed by the likes of yourself and the Scarlet priests and paladins, it is used as a medium for one's own strength, rather than a physical embodiment of a higher being. You see, you can create a connection to the universe around us, tapping into an internal strength whenever this connection is made. Using this new 'power' from inside you, if you will, you can encourage the recipient of your healing to recover quicker and without damage. All you're really doing is accelerating the healing process that the body would do naturally given time and energy without significant blood loss, but in a much, _much_ shorter timespan. Of course this is still physically demanding, drawing up large amounts of energy to focus on healing these wounds since you are doing something unnatural to a body, but as it doesn't actually alter the physical makeup of a person, whichever race it is, then there is no reason for it to protect against blight." Finished, I looked at my sole audience and saw her inscrutable expression, half hidden under her drawn up scarf.

"That's very insightful, Cersae. _Very insightful_. There's just one thing I want to know- where did you learn all of this?" Why did her voice sound so strange?

"I-" A large library. Shelves upon shelves of books and tomes, each still posessing the lingering touch from its readers past. A windowed room, filled with old, scratched wooden desks, sunlight streaming in from the west. A solitary bedroom, with a scarce cot- feather stuffed mattress- a dressing table with a small, gauzy mirror, and a young girl with brown hair and brown eyes staring back at me. "I don't really recall, I'm afraid. It seems so long ago…" I trailed off, the new images feeling foreign. Up until now I could remember Edmund and Mort, my time spent with them tutoring in alchemy and dagger-wielding, but up to that point, nothing. And now, distant memories of places ghostly familiar make an appearance. My feelings were bouncing back between disturbed and elation, a void in my mind where memories of years' worth should be held.

"Excuse me, I need to start brewing a solution." Avoiding the topic, I buried myself in taking unlabelled jars from their resting places and readying my apparatus for use, intent on creating something I had wanted to complete earlier. The distraction proved useless initially. I was keenly aware of her silent presence in the room, watching and judging. Placing some weights on one of the scale pans, I began to measure the first ingredient delicately, placing each leaf on the pan with a pair of tongs. The candles flickered slightly at my movements, but the light was true enough to allow me to read well from my notebook.

"Cersae." I heard after a while.

I ignored her, setting aside my fourth ingredient and tidying the done with jars. I just need some lotus…ah, there it is. Now to grind it; where is my mortar and pestle? Locating the set I began about my work. Systematically I worked through the preparation. Setting some water to simmer on the corner stove. Now, to get the cauldron heated up. Next is the plague base _before_ the reactive ingredient is added, that's easily done…where's the-? Ah, there it is.

"Cersae." Just to chop the herbs a little finer for easier brewing…need them to dissolve properly.

"Hmm?" I mumbled, concentrating intently on the ingredients list- no, that can't be right, that's far too much ectoplasm, need to change that. I fished out my quill and inkwell and altered the list accordingly after performing some basic calculations.

"Why are you here?"

"I'm brewing, can't you see?" Let's see, if I multiply it by a factor of four, not including the base amount...

"No, why are you here in _Northrend?"_

"I'm looking for someone important to me…" Carefully, I measured just the right amount of liquid acid from its container into my beaker. Setting it aside, I turned the page in my journal.

"Cersae, why did you leave Silvermoon?" Now, if these numbers are correct, then my projection for this potion is going to be too diluted. That means I need more plaguebloom…but then-

"I didn't leave Silvermoon…never been there." Hmm, if I apply Manigut's Spagyric Laws to this formula then I'm running into a problem. Shifting my weight onto one foot, I examined my work. What's the counterbalance without losing the potency? This can't be right, those two wouldn't bond at all, it'd be catastrophic and a grievous waste of precious resources! I sighed at the book and turned to reference an official tome.

"Where _did_ you leave, Cersae?" It's got to be one of the more basic ingredients messing this up, something isn't right here. My initial theory was correct, I'm _sure_ of it. Flicking to the tome index, I searched for the Spagyric Laws, _just_ to double check.

"I left Stormwind, didn't have a choice…" Checking the barely bubbling water, I replaced the lid on the pot and I returned to my spread parchments on my desk, admiring each closely for an inconsistency. I silently praised myself on the good practice of double checking my work before heading straight into an experiment.

"Why didn't you have a choice? Were you kicked out of the Paladin Order?" I leafed through six loose pages, unsatisfied with the unidentifiable mistake I had made in my secondary write-up. I was _so sure_ this was all correct! I had spent hours on it! Oh where is my diary?!

"I wasn't a Paladin, I was a Priest. You know, I am getting pissed off with this, is there an unnamed journal near you- ah, up there on that shelf, could you pass it? Thanks." Opening the notebook I ran back through my initial brainstorms and propositions for this potion.

"I see. Tell me Cersae, when did you die?" Leafing through the pages swiftly I nearly tore a couple in my unexplainable haste. I couldn't put my finger on it, but something was _very_ wrong here.

"Er, about three years ago, or so I'm told." There it is! Mentally kicking myself, I found two pages stuck together in the corner with some unknown dried substance. I stupidly combined two very different potion recipes in my secondary write-up. I'm such an idiot, that could have been a disaster! Carefully, I tried to peel them back while maintaining the notes squashed between.

"One last thing, what colour are your eyes?"

"Brown…aha!" I successfully separated the two pages, happy that I hadn't lost any important notes or numbers. A grin dominated my face in triumph as I looked up to share my success with Lynara.

But she was already staring at me. And not in her usual condescending, prissy way. It was a serious, this-is-something-big expression. And I did not like it.

"W-what's wrong?" I managed to stutter, uncomfortable under her gaze. She sat very still, one leg crossed over the other. In a fluid motion she stood and strode to me purposefully. _Was she always so tall?_

"Cersae, your eyes aren't brown, they're grey." Her face was close and I could make out her defined jawline and straight nose. She had thin lips and high cheekbones.

"What are you talking about? I know what colour my eyes are! They're bro-" I stopped. They're brown. My hair was brown. I was a priest. From Stormwind. "How- how did you do that? How did I say those things when I don't even remember?" Matching her stature, I tried to push myself into her personal space now, angry at the falsehoods she had me spin. "What magery is this?!" I cried, reaching to shove her- I was unsuccessful. Grabbing both of my wrists she halted my writhing and held them fast. She leaned in close; I was unable to tear away no matter how much I struggled.

"Let- me…GO!" I yelled, not caring to lower my voice. This intrusion on her behalf was too much!

"You confessed your own truths to me, I cannot make you lie. _What are you?"_

"What? What do you mean _'what are you'_? Get off of me!" I tugged harder, but her hands wrapped around my wrists with ease, keeping them still. I was this close to headbutting her- if I could just _reach!_

"You are not Forsaken, but then what are you?" She repeated too calmly. Swearing profusely at her, I cursed her existence until she was to let me go. I tried to kick her but she held my knee with her own. In a surprising show of strength, she threw me against the wall, preventing any more struggle from me. I could almost feel hot tears of anger beginning to form.

"Of course I'm Forsaken, what else would I be?!" all while knowing the answer and praying to The Light she hadn't figured it out on top of ripping my previous history from the very hidden depths of my memory. _How had she done that?!_

"I don't know, but you are definitely not Undead. There is an Unholiness about you which puts me ill at ease," she searched my face, trying to divine the answer from it no doubt. _Good luck, I've seen my reflection,_ I thought. "You are burdened with something worse than Undeath, but you are not of the people who hail from the Undercity, and I doubt you are even of the Sin'dorei- or any elven race," she trailed off, still examining me like an alien. My temper flared.

"Oh really?!" I pushed against her, failing in my attempt at gaining ground. What use was unwavering strength when I couldn't even push away an elf barely larger than me? "What makes you…so….. _sure?!"_ Straining I pushed my back against the stone wall, attempted to gain advantage that way- it also failed. She was unconcerned by my futile tries at freedom, more concerned about my physical existence than whereabouts and doings.

" _The Scourge_ don't feel as bad as you. The Undead do not feel like you. And you cannot be either of those. I know this for a fact because not a single Forsaken has been made in the time since Arthas turned the poor wretches initially, and Cersae, the Forsaken were not born three years ago when you died."

Slumping in defeat I could only turn to her in wonder. She was right, they were nearly a decade old already as a race according to Mort… and now she knew I was different. The water on the stove started to bubble over, sizzling and steaming dangerously as it evaporated into the air.

I felt the icy tendrils lace through me once more.


	34. Advances

Another corpse fell mindlessly to the ground under Ryndan's onslaught. The sun had long set, and the battlefield was dim; not unlike their spirits. His body had been severely damaged and nearly broken on a number of occasions on the front lines, but at least it still stood whole. Swinging his sword straight and true yet more Scourge died by his hand, to be condemned to a final death at last. Time held no meaning, only the sheer will of survival pushing him through each shift. The healers worked tirelessly, to the point of collapse to make sure as many were as combat-ready as they could be. The smithies were bathed in the light of their forges for days and nights, not able to keep up with demand to fix broken and damaged armour. New weapons were handed out every day, some retrieved from the still bodies of their friends on the field for immediate use, so frugal and desperate were they.

At dawn- as with dusk- before the changeover into the next allotment of soldiers, the dead were gathered, noted and burned. The aroma placed a bitter taste in Ryndan's mouth.

Catching his breath for a spare moment, no foes to fight immediately, the paladin allowed himself a moment to observe his surroundings.

Several soldiers- Wintergarde and Crusaders- were gathered to his left taking on a group of newly-risen. No waves were seen emerging from the ominous dark in front of them- a distance of roughly thirty feet into Old Wintergarde was visible thanks to some brave people who risked their lives to place flaming torches periodically along the north-south roads. To his right he saw two of his own- Corporal Danila and Sergeant Riverwind holding their own but beyond them caught Ryndan's eye. _He's back,_ Ryndan observed.

Terowin was on the edge of their designated 'field', dark armour glowing in nearby torchlight, his monstrous ax swinging in great unwavering curves as it hacked into the thighs and hips of a grotesque beast- _a wight_. Swearing under his breath, Ryndan started at a jog in Terowin's direction. The elf never faltered in his movements, Ryndan knew that much. His form was without question and strength unparalleled, that much he had seen and unashamedly admired. However, that didn't mean the paladin would leave him on his own. Groaning armour announced his arrival as he reached the death knight, causing him to glance at the newcomer briefly- but the quick observation was costly. The wight threw in a large swing, aimed for Terowin's head- and landed it well. Ryndan gasped as the body flew a few yards away before he was put upon by the monster. Gritting his teeth, he took stance and prepared a parry, praying to The Light for strength. Large footfalls unsettled Ryndan's posture, but he held fast, rising to meet the fist midway in collision. It worked.

By altering the angle of his swing at great risk the blade's edge caught and tore through rotted flesh and corroded muscle to slice cleanly through the bone and severed the hand from body. Momentum carried the creature forward and Ryndan took opportunity to duck under and swipe at the ribcage. The hacks and tears made deep by Terowin's ax were well placed. As the slow-moving wight recovered his form once more. Ryndan moved swiftly, entering a close melee with it and chopped at the thigh joint, allowing him a quick access to a swipe to disable his foe.

It wasn't cleanly off, but the top of the thigh to the bottom of the pelvis was disjointed and attempting a mid-step, the wight faltered, it's leg twisting freakishly as it placed all of its weight stupidly onto the limb. Falling hard to the cold earth, Ryndan jumped onto the back of it and upturned his sword, grasping the hilt deftly with two gauntleted hands.

"By The Light's will, I will end thee! Back from whence thee came!" and plunged the sword through the back of its skull, deep and thick until nought but a few inches of his sword remained visible. The corpse stopped moving.

"Well that was dramatic," Terowin said from beyond Ryndan. Throwing a sardonic look to the kaldorei, Ryndan straightened and rotated his right shoulder, the joint feeling jilted by the fray. Grunting, he shrugged a couple of times to loosen it but it was to no avail. Uttering the _nth_ curse that night, he made to withdraw his sword- and couldn't. Confused, he examined the blade from the side of the slaughtered's head, and sighed. The blade was implanted so deep that it had penetrated the earth and refused to budge.

"Darksworn, put yourself to use here and remove my sword plea-oomph!" Thrown to the ground, Ryndan dazed, he spun around onto his back to see that five, no- _six_ scourge had advanced on them; Terowin was already running to start fighting the group. Jumping to standing, trying to bypass the dizziness, the sin'dorei grabbed onto his sword once more, his hands wrapped firmly around the hilt and pulled. Nothing. Shifting to one hand on the hilt and the other on the bottom of the blade, he crouched and attempted to thrust upwards again- it moved an inch. A quick glance of his own revealed Terowin still beating them down, though none had fallen yet. Inhaling three deep breaths, his nostrils flared in frustration and fierce determination as he pulled again- only to be thwarted by his injured shoulder. _No, not now!_ Preparing one final attempt, he forced all of his weight and strength upwards- the sword shimmying bit by bit from the skull- and then it was free!

Elated, he alighted the wight and sought to join Terowin, his blade firmly ensconced in his left hand. Making for an opening, he was stopped in his tracks when Terowin called for him to stay.

"It's not safe!" he cried, pushing two of the scourge back hard- Ryndan saw two had fallen, with the remaining clambering over the bodies towards them- Terowin was allowed a getaway moment. With a few feet between Terowin and his opponents, he lifted one hand and uttered an unintelligible chant. Now Ryndan saw why he was halted.

The ground beyond Terowin was bubbling, something sinister and dark at work in that area, Ryndan could _feel_ it. Vapours rose unbidden, contained within the illuminated rune circle Darksworn had placed. While he had grown used to the uneasy presence the death knight omitted, abilities like this threw Ryndan's senses awry with the distaste they invoked. Watching carefully, the mindless ghouls stepped onto the unholy ground, into the ominous fog and convulsed wildly. The ground seemed as if it were red hot tar, molten and demanding, swallowing everything in its vicinity- and the corpses were no exception. Their feet began to swell and burst, the effect spreading rapidly up their legs and limbs, melting their skin and tissue as it sagged. The flesh sloughed from their bones, disassembling in front of the onlookers in a grievous display of rotten decomposition until nought but thick puddles remained of them. The unholy ground faded into nothing, its work now done; the vapours disappearing alongside.

Disturbed and a little frightened by this, Ryndan turned to the death knight in questioning as to exactly _what the hell_ that was.

"A very dire spell taught to me by one Lady Alistra of the The Ebon Hold, and quite effective too," he said admiringly of the 'remains' on the ground, their putrid stench filling Ryndan's senses and threatening to empty his stomach.

"W-why don't you use that more often then, if it is so effective?" Ryndan demanded, barely fighting his gag reflex as he edged away from the carnage. Terowin regarded him with a raised eyebrow and a lingering smirk.

"It is most effective on the weak-bodied, such as these scourge or young children and the elderly," he jeered, trying to remind his superior of his former days of no-doubt glorious slaughtering for Arthas. However, he would not rise to it. Instead he inquired upon his mission into the crypts. Tasked was he with the stealthy assassination of Necrolord Amarion beneath Wintergarde. Judging by his uninjured state, Ryndan gathered he was probably victorious, which Terowin confirmed.

"Deader than me. And," he reached into a large pouch on his waist, withdrawing the top of what Ryndan thought appeared a tome in this light, from it. "I found a little journal of his stashed away," he smirked wholly now, pleased with his success and inevitable payment. Trying with all of his might not to roll his eyes, the sound of the battle-horn and bells from Wintergarde signalled that dawn was not far off and their shift was over. Taking a nearby torch, Ryndan threw it onto the corpse pile, pleased as it engulfed them and the wight. Tiredly, they made their way back to the keep.

* * *

"He sleeps like a log, I don't know how he does it Sir."

"Some people in the world are blessed with the ability to sleep through hail, thunder, lightning and battle sounds, Sergeant."

"Aye, Sir. I confess, I cannot sleep heavily unless I am done up tight in my own bed back at Stormwind Barracks or far, _far_ away from the field."

"Understandable Sergeant, I am also not one of them, and I would envy young Corporal Jason here if it weren't for the trail of drool exiting his mouth at an alarming rate."

They fell into a brief silence, examining the man sitting on the ground with one leg stretched before him, the other bent, hugged by his armoured arms and holding up the head donning a slanted helmet. Even in near-winter, Corporal Jason managed to find somewhere comfortable enough to nap outside, amidst some empty crates. Like most of the men, Ryndan, Jason and Edrikson had sprouted stubble, forgoing tidiness and the chance to be clean-shaven in favour of warmth. Jason, with his light blond hair surprised Ryndan by growing the beginnings of an alarmingly ginger beard. And right now it was quite damp.

"Shall I wake him, Sir?" Edrikson asked edging forward towards his dozing friend.

"No, stay a moment, I have an idea." Ryndan turned and walked away, returning moments later with a very dangerous weapon in his hands. The look of apprehension and uncertainty on Edrikson's face was not unnoticed and raised an air of mischief in Ryndan that he had not felt for some time.

"L-Lieutenant Commander, is that a good idea?"

"Yes, Sergeant. This will teach him a thing or two about falling asleep under my command when I didn't give him specific permission to doze," he grinned to his subordinate, watching as the younger man lit up with jest and excitement at what Ryndan was about to do. Silently counting to three, he threw the bucket of water over Jason and revelled in the reaction. Ryndan was called several names and cursed to some rather nasty places before Jason realised _just exactly_ who was responsible for his wake up call.

"Oh, bollocks," Jason muttered, burying his sodden head in his arms. Edrikson had his hands on his knees in scarcely-contained glee. Ryndan assumed his superior stance- back straight, shoulders tight, head held high.

"Indeed, young master! Now if I were you I would either start kissing my, rather muddy, I might say, greaves to gain favour with me after that gruesome behaviour, or I might stand up straight and salute your superior in fear of receiving a worse punishment!" To his hidden amusement, the boy made to kneel in front of Ryndan before the elf kicked his shoulder gently so that he lost balance and fell on his ass.

"Now, Corporal, I suggest you go get yourself cleaned up and dried before going on duty. Make sure you are fully dry before dressing or you'll be out of commission."

"Yessir!" he jumped up to standing, a slight tremble already setting in and saluted. Briskly walking by the pair, Ryndan called him one last time.

"Oh and Corporal? If I hear that you are out of commission due to a slight cold, I will make sure that it's the least of your worries, so no attempts at deliberately catching one. Am I clear?" A gulp and a terse nod partnered with a scared face was his answer. Turning to the now fully doubled over Sergeant, Ryndan let out a hearty laugh and all felt good.

* * *

His sleep was scarce and broken, the allotted resting time required soon to come to an end and so Ryndan stirred from his hard cot allowing an easy routine of gyrating to rid of knots and kinks unwelcome. A Spartan wash was had and now dressed in his general attire, he made his way to the inn for a dinner-inspired breakfast. These flipped days-into-nights were playing havoc with his body clock and soon the light of day would seem as rare as a blue moon. Today especially- grey, aggressive clouds held off any advances that sunshine may have made in trying to reach the desolate people of Wintergarde.

Now late in the evening, there were many milling after a long and no doubt arduous day labouring. It wasn't until he had consumed his meal and quickly emptied his mug of water that the paladin began to truly wake. Several people approached him with various standard reports from throughout the day- the injury count, the death toll and if there was any advance made on the frontlines (there were none). However, stepping outside of the inn and back into the blistering cold brought about a fresh view that Ryndan didn't notice beforehand- people were buzzing. The low-lying noise was so subtle amidst the cannonfire and march of armour-clad soldiers, but it was there. The populace was chatting.

Confused, Ryndan pulled over a rather drawn Sergeant Riverwind and inquired as to any recent events outwith the frontlines.

"Aye, Lieutenant Commander, there has been progress made at the Wintergarde mine to the north," she answered strongly through her fatigue. Still in muddied battle-dress, Ryndan wondered if she hadn't slept since the previous day and asked if this was the case. "No I haven't, Sir," she replied almost happily. "The entrances to the Mines have been sealed off, now disallowing any more risen Scourge miners from feeding the mine's contents to the War Machine! Did you not hear the blasts, Sir? The group responsible arrived within the hour." A smile played about her mouth as Ryndan absorbed this information. The mines had been under Scourge control since the first day of Naxxramas' onslaught and from what Ryndan knew, the ore within was supplied to various Scourge engineers allowing for sinister and deadly weaponry to be implemented against the soldiers. Now he could see why spirits were lifted all throughout and what a difference it made! Thanking and dismissing the Sergeant, Ryndan made to head into the town proper, seeking out Commander Ashwood before something else caught his eye beyond the flight masters.

Surmising no harm would be made in taking an extra couple of minutes to reach his destination, Ryndan sidetracked to the unusual sight. Making a lot of noise and growling, the elf cautiously approached the girl and her wolf and watched as their bizarre wrestling got underway. Taking his snout in both of her hands, she clamped his jowls shut and held off his huge grey body with one foot, trying to push him aside. The grin on her face attested to how little danger she was in and Ryndan witnessed as Miles wriggled out of her hold and pinned her on the ground, playfully nipping at her arms.

"No! You horrid beast, gerroff me!" she cried in her laughter. "No! NO, NO, NO! P-put that- haha!- tongue away you filthy animal!" Ryndan laughed in spite of himself as Miles licked her face all over, seemingly ending their fight. In a last ditch effort to exert his superiority, Miles collapsed wholly on Jerewyn, causing her to cry out as her breath was forced from her lungs. "Oh you manky sod! Get _off_ of me!" Her futile attempts to move him were laughable and so Ryndan went over to aid the poor girl. Whistling, he became the focus of Miles' attention and bent down as the wolf padded over to him. Allowing him a curious sniff, Ryndan silently asked permission to pet the animal, to which he seemed to begrudgingly allow.

"Eurgh!" cried the human imbedded in the snow. "Captain! Help! I can't get up!" she called- one gloved hand waving weakly in his direction. Taking pity, Ryndan offered a hand. Cursing, she sat up, grimacing and hissing.

"Are you in pain?"

"Yeah, loads," she cringed, massaging an assumedly injured knee.

"Do you require medical attention? Did Miles hurt you?"

"What?" she looked incredulous at the idea. "Oh, blimey, no. No, no. I was injured on our last hunt, twisted the leg pretty bad in a daft accident, and this mutt managed to help me get back to the group to get back home. I'm taking it easy until it heals." She thumped her leg and a definitive wooden sound replied.

"A splint?"

"Aye, just to keep it steady," she sighed, leaning back onto her hands. Miles got up and positioned himself, allowing his mistress something to lean against and taking her deadweight as she leaned into his fur. An unusual pair, Ryndan could see the years of friendship they possessed and envied them greatly.

"I would recommend that you move inside, or at least off of the snow lest you soak through and make your health worse, young lady."

"I'm thinking about it, Captain," she said, her eyes closed, "but I do like the snow." He thought about correcting her use of his former rank but decided it wasn't important, instead he asked her what she liked so much about the cold, wet material attempted to blanket them. She peeked one dark brown eye open and eyed him.

"What?"

"Here, close your eyes," she said. Hoping she meant no ill intent in her injured state, Ryndan followed her instructions. "Hold out your hand…good, now eat," was her final command. Skeptically, he raised a long eyebrow but did so nonethe less. Raising one hand to his mouth, no foul smell greeting him and he tasted it. It was fresh and cold, icy and delicious- gone almost the instant it entered his body.

"That's snow- it's frozen water and is nothing more than pure nature. Dig enough, the snow will keep you warm. Drink enough, the snow will keep you sated. For all it might be deadly, it can keep us alive too. It's a way of nature saying that it's a two-sided coin; one to destroy and one to sustain.

"A fresh, undisturbed blanket of snow across a mountain peak or uninhabited woodlands, across a farmer's field and even on the roof of your house is a delightful sight indeed. Sitting around a fire, the snow falling outside of your window- what more could you want to feel alive?" she finished, leaving Ryndan in awe.

"That was poetically described, Jerewyn. Beautiful, in fact." She laughed softly at him.

"Ta, but I can't take the credit. My eldest brother told me that when we were en route to Dun Morogh once- though I suspect he got it from Dad."

Ryndan nodded, feeling good just talking about something other than what lay up in the sky and dominating their grounds. "Still, a vivid point well made. How are you feeling? What was the 'daft accident' from your hunt that caused your injury?" She snorted at him and gave a hearty laugh.

"Sorry! I just never thought I'd hear you say 'daft'!" she giggled. "Ah, oh dear. Sorry. Yeah- the accident. Well, I don't know if I refilled it incorrectly or if there was a major flaw in the design or what, but one of Luce's bolts backfired on me and blew me half-way down a steep hill. Hurt like hell let me tell you," she said pointedly. "But anyway, I don't know what went wrong but I'll need to say to her when I next see her, if I see her again."

"Oh, she has already departed hasn't she?" Ryndan recalled her saying she was leaving, but as it was during the day he hadn't been able to see her off while he was sleeping.

"Yep. To The-Light-knows-where doing who-knows-what," the young girl sighed. Her amazingly yellow hair had grown a little since their initial meeting and Ryndan was surprised to see that it was curling.

"If Highlord Fordring requested her assistance we can only hope that she doesn't manage to blow something up like your bolt!"

"Oh bloody hell, could you imagine if she did?" Jerewyn looked horrified at the idea and the two dissolved into laughter.

* * *

"Firesworn! Feels like an age since I've seen you- how are you faring with your new duties?" Ashwood asked, removing her dented helm and shaking loose her cropped hair. Sweat teemed from her, breathing laboured but all in all, she seemed well and intact.

"Coping, Sir- and you? Have you heard the news regarding the mines?"

"I have yes, it filtered through the lines until reaching us up front. Not to mention we heard the blasts from where we were. It is good news- and we'll see the results tonight I believe."

"Oh?"

"The troops; it'll boost their morale gaining ground upon the Scourge and I don't blame them, it's a much needed uplift. Rumour has it that it was a group of outsiders- including that Kirin Tor mage you introduced me to."

Ryndan was surprised. Upon their entry to Wintergarde, he had asked to speak with Alexander and Ashwood hoping that he would be able to convince the Kirin Tor to come to their aid. Unfortunately it was not to be so with their own troubles brewing in the far west. "I'll have to congratulate him on a splendid job when I see him then."

"Agreed. Sun's about to set, when is your shift?"

"Darkest of the night 'til dawn, Sir so a few hours yet. With the recently arrived adventurers and sellswords our hours have been cut down drastically now. The night shift seems quieter than day- it would appear that the Scourge are as reliant on the daylight as we are." Turning, he offered to walk Ashwood back to the inn discussing the general administration still required of the higher-ups. They were nearly upon their destination before being halted by the most unexpected of people.

"Darksworn, what is it?" Ryndan asked of the man. Even though he was out of armour, his demanding ax still lay straight across his back. The dark hair that normally swam free was now tied back for practicality on the field but it drew attention to his battle-hardened face- and the brightly shining eyes as darkness drew near. A tome- one Ryndan recognised from the field only last night – was held in his hands.

"I think there's something you'll be wanting to see Firesworn, you too, Ashwood."

" _Commander_ Ashwood, soldier. And what is it? This had better be more important than my bedrest, do you hear me?"

"Oh, you'll want to see this."

* * *

Three figures strode purposefully through the lines marching their way against them. Fighting the current of returning battered soldiers, they set on a path straight for the keep watching over Wintergarde. Even in the fading light it remained ominous and unmoving.

"This book, this tome- it was the Necrolord's that I disposed of. Cavalier something-or-other who I was to report to regarding the situation was pleased with the find but was disgusted by the book itself." Terowin spoke, leading the small party uphill.

"Why?"

"Because it is made of flesh probably. He seemed squeamish," he drawled off-handedly. "But beyond that it was what was inside the book." Halting he turned immediately and opened it. The pages did not make the usual papery sounds, but heavy grisly ones. Squinting by nearby torchlight, the Commander and her inferior officer inspected the text.

"It's illegible."

" _No,_ it's Scourge." The death knight stated, bearing down upon them as if it was obviously supposed to be Scourge text.

"And you don't read Scourge?" Ashwood asked.

"I do not, it is not a language I was taught. We Death Knights were for battle, Ashwood- not for paperwork." He turned on his heel and started up once more, the two elves in tow. "Now, I showed this to High Commander what's-his-face-"

" _Wyrmbane,_ Darksworn!" corrected Ryndan, slightly irritated.

"Yes him, and he has asked me to bring the tome to the keep for translating. Now, no human alive can read this. It is the language of Death. Which must mean that they have a Scourge prisoner in their custody."

"And why would that interest us?" The Commander's patience was no doubt drawing thin, especially after a long day slaughtering the monsters, Ryndan thought.

" _Because_ , Ashwood, this particular Scourge will have to be able to communicate if it is to translate, and I thought that you would like to witness this; an intelligent Scourge being for once."

* * *


	35. A Cold Victory

Much to Ryndan's chagrin, Terowin was rarely off the mark about something and had never been wrong in assumptions or information to date. And so, when the group of three descended the dank stairwell to the underbelly of Wintergarde Keep, the paladin had prayed that just once the death knight was awry with his theory.

He wasn't.

Exiting the stairwell lead them into a scarily similar dungeon to that of the one beneath Westguard. Swiftly was Ryndan reminded of the foul stench and begotten terror of what had happened in _that_ particular hellhole and his stomach lurched in response. Judging by the minute tension indicated in Commander Ashwood's stance, she felt the same. There was a major difference between the two scenes however. In Westguard there had been a large, solitary Vrykul taking up residence in one of the pitiful cells surrounded by a number of armed soldiers all at the ready. He had been wrapped in chains and shackles to limit mobility and fighting capabilities but in the end, none of his restraints were necessary.

And now, here today in a dire echo of that incident from weeks ago was the Scourge that Terowin had predicted. No small army stood their ground here, however. In their place strode back and forth a tall man. Dressed in the formal robes of someone bearing great importance with a mien to match, he drew up mightily as he regarded the three newcomers. Ryndan was torn between immediate respect and slight abrasion at the pompous vibes deviating from the figure.

"Stay back!" he cried, holding a straight palm towards them and thus halting their entrance any further inwards. Without waiting for a response he continued. "The beast might lash out and harm you," a terse nod towards the Scourge in the cell was seemingly enough to prove the 'beast's' apparent threatening presence.

"Fear not, this soldier has been tasked to see you out, Inquisitor Hallard," Commander Ashwood spoke, indicating for Terowin to step forward. Even though not formally invited on this quest by the High Commander himself, she still took charge concerning those involved.

"What have you brought me- a tome?" The aged man reached for it, taking it from Terowin's grasp. The death knight explained its origins and how it came to be in his possession. During this brief conversation, Ryndan took the time to examine the creature residing within the gaol.

Flesh and rags hung from the body of this once-man. Not unlike most of the Scourge Ryndan had fought off and slain, his physical condition was beyond death and decomposition. Jagged teeth and slobber jutted out from his slanted mouth, hair ragged and unkempt. Pieces of bone were visible here and there where the skin and muscle could no longer stay bound together. His form was hunched as though he possessed a crooked or broken spine and arms dragged heavily at his side as the creature slowly trudged around the filth-ridden cell. Feeling as though he had grown a little immunity to the horror that the Scourge presented visually, Ryndan peered deeper into the visage and was surprised. The Scourge recognised that there were others in the room present and almost seemed to cock his head in an attempt to listen. Terowin was correct- there was a latent intelligence within this being. Through his brief examination, the elf noted that the depths of this Scourge's eyes were not the flat-eyed stare that most of the others possessed. No, these seemed deeper, unfathomable as though if one were to look to long, they may drown in that sea of black- _not unlike a certain pair of white eyes,_ he thought abruptly.

Flinching, Ryndan returned his attention to the rest of his company just in time to hear the Inquisitor hiss violently.

"Scourge text, you are correct. This may hold secrets valuable to our cause." He threw a dirty look towards the prisoner. "You were right to bring this to me. Keep your distance, I will see if I can coerce his aid," Hallard whispered roughly. There was a glint, a gleam in his blue eyes that Ryndan disliked immediately as the man spoke. He seemed almost predatory in his approach to the bars separating the Scourge from them.

"GODFREY! Hear me, fiend!" he called loudly, voice commanding and booming. Ryndan was more surprised that this creature had given the Inquisitor his living _name_. "Hear me, for I am the Light, here to deliver you from evil!"

To the newcomers' surprise, the creature halted in his weary walking to face Hallard. A very deliberate, deep growl exited the Scourge. The intimations of the noise were very clear- _get to hell._

Hallard was unperturbed by this in the slightest. "Good, I have your attention then Godfrey?" Another, more menacing growl was his response. Ryndan placed his hand on the pummel of his sword. A quick side-glance revealed that Commander Ashwood had done similar. Terowin remained unmoved, fixated on the scene unfolding before them.

"We can do this in one of two ways, Godfrey. First, I will simply ask you to tell me what the unholy markings etched upon the pages of this tome mean. What say you?" He could have been goading a child to correct a small lie, for all Ryndan knew with that tone.

Godfrey violently hissed- a grating sound upon Ryndan's ears before he took a heavy step towards the Inquisitor. " Tell you no-thing, _preacher_. Whaaat can you dooo to meee that Kel'Thuzzzad has nooot? That the Liiich Kiiing will nooot?!" His voice was broken glass. Broken glass in a bed of crumbled slates being crushed by a sandstone grindstone. His slanted jaw made for uneasy speech and for a moment Ryndan envisioned Walden standing on the other side of those bars.

"The book isss your sssalvaaation, yesss…but nothing will you know! NOOOTHING I SSSAY! _NOTHING!"_ Godfrey declared throwing his distorted arms in the air. Ryndan drew a sharp breath but stood his ground _. No one was in danger, just reign in the reflexes_ , he thought. Hallard merely chuckled at the outburst.

"Then it is option two," he spoke quietly. "I say a prayer for you now, lost soul. May the Light take you gracefully. Let the Sermon begin."

Confused, the witnesses watched on as the Inquisitor began a small chant. Within the first few beats it was easily recognisable as a hymn from the Prayer Libram all who walk the path of The Light are taught. Soon its relevance became all too clear.

Godfrey began to hiss, shifting uncomfortably before the man. Unsure if his eyes were playing tricks, Ryndan watched on as Godfrey seemingly started to tremble. The chant grew louder, a faint halo settling around Hallard and growing a tiny bit brighter with each syllable uttered. His voice rose further.

"No!" yelled the Scourge now stumbling backwards, further into his cage, aching to escape the song.

"Do not fight me, fiend! The time of your atonement is now!" Hallard shouted, resuming his chant. His arms rose higher, indicating the point of crescendo nearing.

"Never felt hurt like thisss! _Noo!"_ Ryndan felt the blood drain from his face with the wails.

"May the power of Light compel you!"

"I tell you anything you want!" the screaming grew ever louder and Ryndan stood aghast at the torture unfolding before him. He hadn't moved yet Ashwood lay a hand on his forearm, silently forbidding any interference. Her gaze never left the scene before them.

"The power of the Lich King pales in comparison to the glory of THE LIGHT!"

"I tell you anything you want!"

"BURN IN HOLY FIRE! LIGHT TAKE YOU _, BEAST!"_ A bright illumination flooded their senses as Hallard projected the physical embodiment of his power's build up onto Godfrey. Recoiling in horror, Ryndan shielded his eyes and heard an all too familiar voice.

_"The pain! Oh Light it's KILLING ME! IT'S-IN-MY-HEAD!"_

For the second that the room lit up in the wake of Hallard unleashing his fury, Ryndan found himself transported deeper into his memories. A vision of a white-haired woman, rolling on the floor in unbearable agony claiming pain unimaginable. The Catacombs had echoed with her screams.

"No more LIGHT! NO MORE! I BEG YOU!" Godfrey's pleas and cries brought Ryndan back to the present. Readjusting his senses and nerves Ryndan located the poor beast on the floor of his cell, reaching forth one decrepit, rotted hand. "No more," he whispered. Swearing in the corner, the paladin caught a glimpse of Terowin with his face buried into his hands, partially crouched with his own torture.

Hallard, breathing heavily and glowing with retribution, crouched down onto the balls of his feet to peer at Godfrey.

"I thought you would see the Light. Now speak quickly, fiend." He reached for the book settled behind him. "What does this tome say?" to anyone peering in now, Hallard would look the ever-peaceful priest, serenity and calm on his face. A scary contrast to the fiery man they had only just witnessed.

"I-it tellsss of the coming apocalypssse. How this world will buuurn and be reborrrn from death," the creature replied without hesitation.

"RUBBISH!" Hallard refuted, his face drawn into a hard scowl. "Godfrey do you take me for a fool? Do not spew your Scourge propaganda at a man of The Light, heathen! Speak now or I will have the peasants craft a holy water bath and dip you into it like a dog with fleas!" he threatened. It worked.

"NOOO! I tell you! I tell you everything!" Godfrey cried, sounding more like child in serious trouble with a parent than a tortured prisoner under harsh interrogation. "Humans…beneath the earth of Wintergarde Village you built a mausssoleum! _Why_ do you think that Naxxramas attacked that ssspot? Thel'zzzan hidesss deep in your own crypt and sends a thousand-thousand corpses at you! _Perish_ you will…"

Silence permeated the room in the wake of this news. Nobody dare to move.

"What?" One word pierced the shock and with it entailed all sorts of anger and injustice. "There is a mausoleum beneath the old village? What fools are we to not have noticed!" He stood suddenly and loomed over the fallen Scourge. "We will find and strike down your master now, Godfrey. We will end this nightmare." The Inquisitor turned to walk away but Godfrey hissed in his direction, a hollow chuckle accompanying the jeer.

"How? Humans truly are stupid, yes? Thel'zzzan the Dussskbringer! Thel'zzzan the Lich! He who is born of human flesssh and bone, sssacrifieced all for power, protected by the Lich King! You cannot ssstop Thel'zzzan! He bears the dark gift, bestowed up on him by the Lich King himssself!" Still on the floor, Godfrey rolled in the filth, laughing gruesomely at the idea.

"You let us worry about how we kill the monster, Godfrey," Hallard replied unconcerned. He turned to the group. "Return to Halford with the information that the good mayor was kind enough to submit. I will finish here and squeeze whatever else this wretch might know about Thel'zane."

"Thank you for your help, Inquisitor Hallard," Ashwood bowed her head in response and accepted a handshake from the greying man.

"My pleasure, Commander. Good day."

Taking his cue from her, Ryndan and Terowin followed Ashwood out of the dungeon and back up into the stairs. Just as they reached the top, Hallard's voice carried on up with them.

"Now I will show you, Godfrey, the rarely seen "option three." Let's you and I have a chat about some things…"

Horrified Ryndan ushered quickly out into the main courtyard with his small party, revelling in the fresh, brisk air that greeted him.

"That was very informative. Well done, Darksworn on your find- this news may be the turning point we need to win against these forsaken creatures," Ashwood said, giving Terowin an appraised look. "Take what you have heard to the High Commander and repeat it word-for-word. I would go myself but the good man tends to talk too much and I need some rest."

"All in a day's work, Ashwood," Terowin grinned twistedly and set off on a jog until he was out of sight.

"Today has been a day for good news! Thank the Light, indeed," she said massaging her temples wearily.

"Agreed, Commander, it was a good find from Terowin. In fact, so much so that-" Ryndan paused, a thought suddenly assaulting him.

"What is it, Firesworn?"

"Commander- why did Hallard refer to Godfrey as 'the good mayor'?"

A scream echoed from the vaults of the cellars and the blood drained once more from Ryndan's face. Moments later, footsteps up the stairs revealed Hallard once more- however this time he was stained with a dark spatter.

"He was the former mayor of Wintergarde, before Naxxramas attacked," the priest said calmly to the Crusaders. Reaching into his pockets he retrieved a blindingly white hankerchief to clean his face with. "There's no difference between him and dirt now," he says. "No loyalty or mercy to us anymore." With a final nod, he walked past the pair and into the keep, not waiting for any response or gooddays.

Ryndan's insides churned for the second time in the space of a half-hour. Hallard had known this man in his life, from when he was a decent respectable man and now he stood beneath their feet torturing the poor bastard for information on Scourge defences? _No loyalty or mercy_ , he had said. And Ryndan could only think that neither of them had been given for the life he once had. On the field it was easy to forget that the Scourge could have been people you once knew.

"Firesworn, I can see it written all over your face. He does what he has to do. Godfrey is no longer the same person he was in Life. I might have thought you should have learned the difference by now," the woman beside him said, a steel in her voice and a cold weight on top of her words.

 _She's right, why wouldn't I be able to differentiate that?_ he thought. Though recalling the pale eyes haunting his memories, the answer was highly obvious- _because he simply didn't want to. Sometimes there were far more terrifying things to be fearful of than the Lich King's armies- and human nature was at the top of the list._

* * *

They attacked just after dawn.

A swarm, a mass, an army moving towards a common target as one. Grievous-looking machines paved their way, leading the charge. Vile concoctions propelled forth from the siege weapons, disintegrating any and all in their path. The survivors were mowed down under the unforgiving wheels bearing these instruments of death. Anything still moving after that was quickly obliterated by the foot soldiers bringing up the rear of this terrible force.

The Horde was utterly glorious in their slaughter.

Warned of the imminent attack, their calls heeded and volunteers gathered now, the residents of Wintergarde were given a warning to remain off the battlefield that used to be their lower town. Standing atop the battlements, climbing onto rooftops and towers, they watched as their newfound allies unleashed hell upon the Scourge of Naxxramas. No cannon fire echoed from these walls, the first time they had rest in nearly three weeks. Silence had crawled its way into the encampment, blanketing everyone and everything under its cloak.

The animals had been still, awake and alert. Gryphons cocked their heads, knowing something was underway. The dogs and wolves of the hunters lay low, ears perked and teeth set. Even the few vultures that had been seen attempting to scavenge the fields had fled their grounds today.

The night shift had been called early, an hour before dawn. The dead were burned and numbers marked. The survivors had wearily returned, anxious for the sunrise and the destruction it was reported to bring. At first light, they were not disappointed.

With baited breath they had stood still, praying, hoping, wishing that help had truly come. Tension was thick and heavy, but not as weighted as the shadow bearing down from on high from the dread citadel coveting their dead. The cold went unnoticed, the blood in everyone's veins hot with anticipation.

A rumble- not unlike that of distant thunder- drew their attention to the south-east. Louder it grew, the rumbling turning into grinding. The sound of spiked metal on rock heralded the first glimpse that was the Might of the Horde.

The Scourge were not prepared.

From the safety of Wintergarde battlements, they watched on as tiny figures, bathed in day's first glow, became alert to the presence of something wrong. Something strong. And coming from them. The Scourge Siegesmiths scuttled and croaked as the Forsaken Catapults cut them down like broken twigs underfoot. Lining up, a rough fifteen-twenty that Ryndan could see from this far, they paused in a long line, overlooking the old entrance into Wintergarde; a wooden bridge that used to grant passage over a long-dried river. And then they opened fire.

Down below, beneath their onslaught lay masses of unfocussed Scourge. No orders had been given to them, and so they lounged in the small valley, positioned perfectly for the plague unleashed on them from overhead.

Ryndan was glad that he was upwind of that particular culling.

Soon enough the Scourge rallied- whether from the order of a master or of their own volition, he did not know. The few remaining scurried and scrambled up the hillside to the passage leading towards Venom Pointe, now in too close a proximity for the catapults to aim for. A small panic arose among the spectators but died just as soon as the true strength of their attack became clear.

Wielding swords, axes, staves and magic, the Horde burst from the passage, their battlecries and charges loud and clear to all who could hear. The Scourge fell with ease, the oncoming storm filtering between the Forsaken Machines and they spilled into Lower Wintergarde, hungry for death and blood by their hands.

Naxxramas had awaken, the Lieutenants and Masters under its reign now alert to the Horde attack. Scourge and Death Knights alike were rallying towards the far back of Wintergarde now, and Ryndan wasn't the only one to notice.

"To arms, men! Let us show our neighbours that they cannot outdo the Might of the ALLIANCE!"

Cheers and shouts echoed High Commander Wyrmbane's sentiments and arms were gathered. Within a half hour, the Alliance Expedition and Argent Crusade were joining their brothers- and sisters-in-arms on the fields of Wintergarde.

Ryndan felt alive- more than he had in his entire time in Northrend. Yes. This was what he joined the Argent Dawn for; this justice, this retribution and equality. Horde and Alliance battled side by side, the recently-joined faction relieved to see their counterparts rushing the field to their aid. Frequently, taking a spare moment, Ryndan would admire the beauty of a mage dealing in arcane power. Twice he had been mesmerised by a troll swinging her fire-imbued weapons, cutting down the monsters in her path. Towards the back, healers deftly and bravely ran into the battlezone to retrieve a fallen soldier- Alliance, Horde or otherwise- for immediate treatment. There was a faint, warm glow hailing from the doctors and medics that day.

Three times he shook hands with his new allies- once for having his own life saved and twice more for being the saviour. Several times he was relieved to spot faces he recognised still standing and fighting, not lying face down on the muddied earth unmoving or breathing. Ashwood danced with that amazing grace of hers, sabres sharp and deadly with their travels. McGreaves, Edrikson, Danila, Jason, Riverwind- even gentle Lorik- were all seen with fire blazing in their eyes with newfound energy. Ryndan allowed himself a small chuckle at the relief of seeing even Darksworn intact this morn.

Twice his heart nearly stopped- the first when he spotted a twirl of white hair following by the slashing of a sword and spurting of blood, only to recognise it as plumage from a top a helm. The second time was when he found himself back-to-back with none other than Baron William Walden.

Acknowledging each other with relief, their reunion was cut short by the appearance of three death knights- and their Scourge companions. Lacking the ease he would have liked, Ryndan harried forth with his attacks, not giving them the chance to back down or charge first. Parrying, dodging and disarming his opponent's attacks, he registered the fall and death of one of them already by Walden's blades behind him. Taking his cue from this, Ryndan raised his own blade high and brought it down heavily, the knight not even knowing that death had been dealt to him.

The third proved to be more challenging. With a disturbing smirk, not unlike their own prat-of-a-death-knight, the Scourge champion held his own against Walden's stabs and slices, unable to grant him any ground. Struggling to find an opening, Ryndan held back, ready to take over should Walden fall or worse. The paladin cautiously walked around them, keeping close for his chance. His Forsaken friend was having trouble and Ryndan decided to attempt something new.

Impressed by the technique even if fairly disgusted, Ryndan recalled the battle against the Wight and the following Forsaken only yesterday. Terowin's methods had been unorthodox but ingenious, and now it was Ryndan's turn to try. Summoning the Light from within himself, allowing a moment of concentration, he closed his eyes and focussed on the earth beneath his feet. Imbuing all the gathered power, he thrust the Light from himself and shot his eyes open at the glowing cracks emerging from the ground. Hissing, both the Death Knight and Walden broke in their fray to escape the Holy burning and the Lieutenant Commander took his opportunity.

Rushing forth, the Knight thrown off his guard, Ryndan swung a calculated blow to his abdomen- only for it to be blocked. Not as slow or stupid as he thought, the Death Knight's smirk twisted into a glower and the frost-infused eyes bore deep into Ryndan's own.

"You dare defy me and my King?! Death to you all!" A sharp movement and Ryndan's right arm was dislocated cleanly. Vulgarly shouting out in pain, Ryndan dropped to one knee, his sword held in the other hand. Blinking through his tears, he spied the gleam of a blade plummeting down upon him. He couldn't even spare a thought as it tore through armour and flesh before ripping out gravely from the wound. Grunting and gasping, he gripped his shoulder trying to staunch the bloodflow. Several feet to the right of him, his attacker fell dead under the blades of Walden and Darksworn. Walking over to him, Ryndan was helped to his feet, muttering his thanks through the pain.

"Not quite the circumstance I envisioned when we next met, but good enough," Walden croaked, a crooked smile on his rotted features. Even in his injured state, Ryndan could tell there was something wrong, something amiss. Despite having been many weeks since their last encounter, he was not hallucinating when he thought that the Forsaken looked _ill_.

"What's wrong?" the paladin gasped at him through gritted teeth. Startled, Walden merely eyed Ryndan before looking away in silence. Angered by hurt and impatience, he spat the question again, enquiring as to what made the Baron look so harrowed. He loved fights, especially against the Scourge, so why did he look so damned miserable?

"It's Cersae," he started, unable to make eye contact. "She's- she's ventured into Naxxramas."

* * *


	36. Perdition

The corridor was long. Exceptionally long. How long had I been walking? Six minutes? Twelve hours? Three Years? I didn't know.

The windows weren't windows, they were bare holes paned with glass, looking into nothing. No help there. Torches were occasional and infrequent, but it never became dark despite this.

**_Holy Light help me…_ **

Is that…a room? I reach for the knob but the door swings wide before I made contact. A bedroom.

A girl stood there, looking back at me confused. I cocked my head; she did too. Plain brown hair hanging just past her slender shoulders, pink skin glowing in firelight – oh, there's a hearth to my left. The girl looked back at me. What is she waiting for, I wonder? She seemed so young. How old was I? Why was she silent? I stepped towards her, noting her reflected mimicry in my movements- oh, it's a mirror. That's me. Approaching the glass, I raised my hand to touch it. Cold, icy and frozen in fact despite the healthy fire nearby. My breath clouded it until I could not see my reflection any more. Disappointedly I dropped my hand and stared at the fog.

"There you are, I was wondering when you would show," I heard. Turning to the bed, I identified a man sitting upon it, one ankle resting upon a knee, peering at me with unhidden curiosity and mischief. His hair was a messy chin length and a faint beard was present on his chin and jawline. I would recognise that knowing smile anywhere.

"Hello, Edmund," I reply calmly. His boyish grin widened. Standing tall, he crossed the room to appear before me, I could smell the scent of leather and masculinity.

**_No! Please! Stop!_ **

"I've been waiting for you," he stated looking down at me. Those dark eyes, I had missed them fiercely. So many messages passed between our connected gazes, aeons of untold words communicated in moments.

"Why?" my voice was scarce above a whisper.

"Because I love you, you silly woman." My heart gave four loud beats. The answer was simple.

"I know, and I you," I told him without shame or regret. Leaning forward, his lips touched my forehead, calloused hands delicately holding my face.

"Sit down," an arm held wide indicated two seats beside the fireplace, previously unnoticed or simply not there upon my entry. I sat on the left one.

We stared at each other, drinking in the presence of the one we had not seen in so long. He hadn't changed from my memories at all. His clothes were a little shoddy but hung well on him. His boots, calf-high and black-leathered as scuffed as when I last saw him. His weskit buttons were all done up save for the top one, and his shirt remained loosely laced around his throat. It was easy to see him as a man now, not just my mentor and saviour. How could I have not noticed it before?

"You're confused."

"A simple deduction really, Edmund. Where are we? Why am I here?"

"I don't know and I'm not sure. But you are. And here am I also. Isn't that all that matters?" His voice, so gruff but used so softly. His focus on me never wavered, nor did I want it to. I didn't feel uncomfortable under his gaze. No, I felt empowered, wanted.

"Yes, I suppose so." Silence fell over us again, but not awkwardly so. Time passed.

**_I can't-! Eaaarugh! NO! Help!_ **

I turned my head, what was that noise…?

"You were here before, don't you remember?" Edmund spoke quickly, gaining my full attention.

"I was? When?"

"Look around, does this not look familiar?" The fireplace disappeared, but the light of it remained. The cloudy mirror was no longer there, but beneath its vacated space sat a plain, wooden desk. There were two drawers, one filled with parchment and writing utensils. The other housed my bits-and-bobs, my small clutter of buttons, ribbons, baubles and more. I knew if I opened it, I would see a red stone resting in the centre of the odds-and-ends.

The cot beside it was made neat and straight. A hard mattress with a threadbare coverlet and sheet. The pillow was horrid to sleep upon unless folded onto itself for sheer bulk. A rickety cupboard behind me would contain my outer cloak, novice robes and my most recent purchase; a leather apron for my alchemic work. Perhaps even my sturdy boots would be resting on the wardrobe floor. The floorboards would be cold should I walk on it with my feet alone, and looking out of the darkened window, I knew I would see a courtyard of stone and garden. The dock bells would echo in the distance.

"My bedroom from the convent." Edmund nodded.

"You came here before, we spoke at length."

"What about?"

"This and that, alchemy, life, herbs and flowers. Mort, our travels."

"Oh. No, I don't remember. When was this?"

"Oh, some time ago now," he waved his hand dismissively. "What matters is that you're here now," he smiled again. Love filled me, how I had missed him! I smiled widely.

**_S-stop…please…I-…Urgh! NO! I beg of you!_ **

I felt a nipping pain on my thigh. Looking down, I couldn't see any visible injury or wound. I ignored it.

"Where have you been?" I asked of him.

"Searching for you," came his immediate reply.

"How did you find me?"

"I didn't, you found me this time."

"This time?"

"Yes. I found you the first time. It was a brief reunion but I would give my life for it to see you once more. You are here now, so I do not have to and that is what matters."

**_Someone…please…help me…_ **

There it was again. "Do you hear something?" I asked of the man opposite me. He shook his head, his overgrown fringe falling into his eyes. I wanted to brush it aside.

"No, but you will. It will probably become louder."

"Oh. Why?" Another sharp pain assaulted my body, this time in my abdomen. Cramps? No, they were more prolonged, this- this was a fleeting pain. Again, no wound or injury gave any indication of my being hurt. Frowning, I cautiously dismissed it again.

"It's just how it works, apparently."

"How what works?"

"This," he waved his hand around, indicating my bedroom. The fireplace had morphed back in front of us now. "Read that book, it will explain it." He pointed to my lap where _Alchemical Fundamentals- Nature and the Universe_ rest upon my knees. I didn't recognise the title cover, nor the binding. There was no author. It was a large book, but it possessed no weight. I opened the cover. Contents and chapter titles greeted me, going on for several pages.

"How will this explain it Edmund? This is about the cycle of life and death," I asked exasperatedly.

**_No!_ **

The screech echoed this time from far down the hallway of which I had walked. Whipping my head to the door, I saw it was shut tight. The scream had been crystal clear and terrifyingly close.

"Read the book, Cersae. You made it about a quarter of the way last time."

"I've read this before?" My memory failed to provide me with anything to confirm or deny this.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because it will answer your questions." Taking his word, I began to read. Biology, science and spirituality all intertwined in the first chapters. How life begins, the theories on reproduction and creation. Soon I read about aging processes. The growth and decay of body, skin and thoughts in a continual cycle. Edmund remained silent in his chair, leaning back and watching me. I didn't mind. Soon I reached chapters concerning decline and finality.

"Edmund, why would reading a book about life and death explain this to me? Why can I not just talk with you?" I sighed, closing the book. He smiled, steepling his hands beneath his chin.

"Oh, my darling, you will never change." He vacated his chair and knelt in front of me. I smiled at him, placing the tome on the floor. Two hands sat upon my knees, thumbs rubbing them softly. My fingers entwined into his hair at the base of his neck. Our foreheads touched.

"My woman," he kissed my forehead again. "My delight," he pecked my nose. "My phantom," his lips brushed mine. Wait, what?

"Phantom?" I sat back, my hands falling to hold his arms. "Why a phantom?" I demanded to know.

**_Aaauuurgh!_ **

The guttural cry pierced the quiet of the room, shuddering everything around. The windows smashed and the desk became upturned. My ears rang for an age, the torment and despair of the scream still shaking my very core. Terrified I looked to Edmund for comfort and reassurance only to see that he remained unaffected by the howl. Instead, ignoring my distress, he reached forth and held a lock of my hair in his hands. Horrified by his lack of concern, I followed his gaze to the hair and my heart stopped beating.

Why was the tress snow-white?

"You are a phantom, my love, because you are no longer alive. You were frozen in time, in your body, unaging and unfeeling. But now," he nodded to my chest. Looking down I cried out as I saw a blade hilt resting in my ribcage. "Now, you are dying rightly and naturally and that is all that matters," he spoke.

I couldn't move. My limbs were frozen, my scream unheard and in vain. Nobody witnessed my grief, my pain or my terror. Nothing staunched the blood pouring from my leg, gut and chest. Edmund became bathed in the red of my life's force all the while unmoving in the wake of my death. His expression spake of his love for me, but nothing more. He didn't help me. He _couldn't_ , I realised. There was nothing he could do, because he was not real. Tears flooded my vision as I realised that nothing and no one could save me.

* * *

I opened my eyes and could not make sense. The figures neared me again, their runed swords glowing in the foggy distance.

Pain and hurt. Hurt and agony. Agony and pain.

Had I died yet?

"You dare betray the King? How foolish you are _traitor_ ," the echoed voice laughed. The blue-flaming eyes of an undead horror jeered at me. His arm raised high. "The Lich King does not forgive."

The Knight ignored my weak protest and plunged the blade deep into my corpse.


	37. Naxxramas

The raid on Naxxramas happened on a dull, wet day.

Many tens and hundreds had travelled from afar to seek its destruction, rallying to the call and cries of the Legions and Orders. Brave, valiant and gallant as some were, few were equipped and trained well enough to serve as practical militia in the direct assault. The others became delegated to labour work; setting up tents, securing supplies, running the temporary base of the small army amassed in the rotten shadow that was the Citadel. Anyone who had answered the call to arms was given a vital role, no one person was ignored. Healers, Physicians and Medicine-men were assigned to particular groups and collectives, making sure each was was the peak of his or her health before the charge.

It had taken less than four days to organise.

The morning of the siege was rain-filled and spirit-dampening. Fear and nerves were aplenty, despite the well-wishes of family, friends and others who remained grounded. In a timely, fashionable manner the throng of warriors and spell-users marched on forth intent on dealing death to the unholy inhabitants inside the most dangerous construct in their history.

Entering upon the cold, stone steps leading into the centre of the airborne fortress, many had shuddered, gasped and whispered disbelief at what they were doing. Ribs were nudged, spines told to straighten and attitudes demanded to buck up; they were doing this and it was going to be successful. The Lich King needed to be stopped, and this was their self-proclaimed objective.

Morag Millstone had been with her particular regiment for a scarce two months, slowly getting to know her fellows in preparation for something like this; a day when their lives rest in her delicate hands. She had spent the past six years studiously training in the teachings of The Light in the snows of her home, Dun Morogh. Her breath was hitched and forced, barely able to control her nerves as the pack of people pressed tighter around her the further they drew into the enclosed walls containing who-knew-what horrors beyond. Even despite their hushed murmurs and terse yet careful footsteps, a rattling scream was heard from afar, jolting several into a near-panic – she was nearly one of them.

A large hand enclosed around her shoulder, offering friendship, support and relief, and she patted it fondly, knowing the kal'dorei owner was a good man. One of the few elves and even fewer druids she had ever met, Riond and she had struck a fast friendship in their early days within their regiment, the two healers greatly fond of each other and their systematic way of working well together. Tentatively, she followed her brethren and designated contingent into the first wing.

The information they had been given was sketchy and hazy, only an extreme handful of scouts ever coming out alive from the citadel to divulge what little information they could offer. Vital as the reports were, and no matter how greatly were the sacrifices made appreciated, everyone had been frustrated to not know more upon entering. One fortress, four quarters and innumerable foes standing between them and their goal- this was the extent of their knowledge. Many whispers- both outside and within the forces leading this charge- labelled this as a suicide mission due to the lack of tactical intelligence. Morag, however scared and nervous she grew, steeled herself with dwarven strength and remained steadfast with her faith in the commanders leading forth the assault.

How wrongly she misplaced it.

Their assigned 'wing' held denizens with far too many legs and limbs for her comfort. Their battle cries nought more than skittering and hostile hissing as their mandibles claimed several with their poisons in the primary entryway. Hiding in the shadows above them, the spider-creatures had dropped without warning onto the unfortunate forefront of their group. The soldiers woke up at the first sign of combat and soon enough the minor guardians of the halls grew silent- even if twitching post-mortem. Allowing the stronger ones to move the corpses of their fallen foes out of the way, Morag, Riond and others moved beyond them, peering down a curved corridor leading into a large, empty room. Two men, one wearing chainmail and the other plated armour, returned from a swift venture into the room and declared it clear, safe to lay the wounded. Immediately the healers sprung into action and ordered those in a bad state to be moved out of the way. With a thin corridor leading into a dead-end chamber, then at least any more potential foes could be bottle-necked instead of attacking them openly in the dire halls.

Deftly she treated the first she came to, laying shivering on a crude blanket while she removed the leather jerkin covering the woman. The bite wound was serious and deep; and poison was not her strong point. Nevertheless she pressed forward, calming the troll beneath her hands and easing what pain she could. Before too long her eyes fell white and rolled backwards into her head. Her pulse stopped beating. The venom had been dealt in copious amounts, swiftly disabling and invading the soldier. Acting even beyond death, the poison forced a yellow froth to bubble from between her tusked mouth.

Sick with revulsion, Morag swallowed bile, fell back on her heels and took a moment to breath, instantly regretting such an action. Scowling at the stench she finally took in the surroundings of the crude, makeshift hospital. Domed, putrid and filthy with dirt, it was clear at first glance that this was no place for to treat the wounded. The infections gained in here would more than likely kill them in place of their injuries, she thought harshly. Why the room was perfectly circular she could garner no purpose or explanation with her dulled logic. The main portion of their regiment stood outside the doorway, not wishing to crowd the healers and also serving as immediate protection to anything wishing to charge the corridor leading to this room. Withholding her revulsion, she turned her attention to the next wounded who needed her.

At first she thought it was her human patient who was hissing in pain before she belatedly realised that he had fallen unconscious- and not only just either. The noise grew a little louder and the dust and dirt beneath her feet started to shift and shake as if in a sieve. The trembles grew more noticeable and others now looked up in confusion and mirrored dread curiosity.

Too late did they realise that they should have run for the doors.

Thrown shut, the two heavy slabs serving as the entryway barred their exit in a cloud of earthen dust- and prevented any of the regiment reaching through to the room to aid them. Crying and calling, several were already on their feet pounding the door, but she knew it was futile, whatever was coming was going to get them, and there was nothing they could do. She sought Riond's elven eyes and the same fear she felt building in the pit of her gut was shining through his.

A sickening noise behind them heralded the arrival of their host.

_"Aaaaah, welcome…to my parlour…"_

* * *

Lieutenant Commander Firesworn moved with careful deliberation upon approaching the enclosure. A mental map held an angrily-red skull marked over the blueprint designated to the chamber in his direct line of sight.

Danger. Warning. Death.

All the typical nuances related to such a symbol flitted through his mind as he recalled the memories regaled to them by Commander Eligor Dawnbringer only a scant four days ago. Having participated in the only other attempted assault upon Naxxramas he was considered one of the few experts trusted and willing to advise all involved in this secondary siege.

The first raid upon Naxxramas, at the birthplace of the fortress in Northern Lordaeron had ended in complete disaster and grief. He, a new leader at the time, had been in shared charge of the regiment entering the now-dubbed _Arachnid Wing_ when they had lost so many to whatever horror lay beyond. Ryndan recalled his face when the Commander described the screams and guttural cries of agony that he heard on the other side of this very same stone entrance. The paladin had not seen many who bore that level of regret and bereavement on their shoulders while still remaining standing under the sheer weight of such a burden, but Dawnbringer used it as an armour, rather than a self-piercing dagger. Ryndan found himself admiring the Commander with a deep respect that few were awarded.

When the doors had reopened, Dawnbringer had told them, there was no sign of the creature that assailed the men and women that had then lay strewn across the room- some barely mere husks of their former selves from only a few minutes previous, he had whispered direly.

Most of the dead had been gentile healers, barely able to defend themselves, much less their patients-in-care. Angry hot tears had formed fleetingly in Eligor's eyes, but their presence had been swift in their passing replaced with a steely determination instead.

However, the Commander had countered, a small, broken light had emerged from this atrocity. One person out of the fourteen survived- almost. Many hours of strenuous and round-the-clock treatment allowed the dwarven woman to regain consciousness. Deemed safe enough to move out of Naxxramas she had been taken directly to Stormwind by way of a hastily-constructed Portal. Screams and terrors poured from her mouth and it was yet another hour and a half further before she believed herself out of immediate danger. Eventually, two days upon her retrieval was she able to describe what had happened. By that point in time, less than a quarter who had entered Naxxramas had managed to escape its dreadful clutches. The others lay dead within the four separate branches, the living few crippled, wounded, near-death or on their way to it.

Never had such a willing carnage been brought upon so many in recent memory, Eligor had reminisced. Azeroth had sent their best, and they had lay beaten and broken beneath Arthas' fist as if they were nothing more than insects. That had been two years ago. Ryndan recalled hearing the reports from his fellows and superiors in the Dawn, his own battalion stationed across the seas on Kalimdor at the time.

The dwarf's description was difficult to draft up, according to Eligor's first-hand reports. Stopping and starting, anxiety attacking her at irregular intervals had made for a difficult interview about what she had survived, but with delicate persuasion the priestess managed to exact her memories onto paper before passing in her sleep later that night. It was probably for the best, the Commander had commented to Ryndan and Ashwood in private, reasoning that the horrors she experienced would have not let her mind rest for the remainder of her days.

The two drawings she managed to describe to a local artist were the essence of nightmares. Ryndan had flinched at them in disturbed horror when he had been presented with the illustrations four days ago in the fire-lit halls of Wintergarde Keep. Some of the spider-like anatomy had been labelled but the rest was lost to crumpled wrinkles and faded ink. 'Hind legs, claws, eyes' and 'horn' were still legible.

He was torn between revulsion and practical acceptance at the existence of such creatures as these, briefly hoping that they were exaggerated or fever-induced by the woman who protested in her dying hours that these were, in fact, real. Common Sense, however, disallowed such disillusionment for him and so he forced himself to study the remainder of the information available in preparation of readying his troops to face…whatever the creatures were, these… _nerubians._

The memories and recordings had been copied and published within the upper circles of military ranks, all information necessary and memorised for such an eventuality as this second raid upon Naxxramas. It was this and the first-hand accounts from the likes of Eligor Dawnbringer that they relied upon now. There was similar intel gathered about two of the other wings, but these were irrelevant to the Argent Crusade delegation. Their focus was the _Arachnid Quarter_ only. And now, thanks to the long-passed dwarven healer and her short will to live on long enough to divulge any information that could save future lives, Ryndan and his Argent Crusaders were now somewhat prepared for what lay beyond in the domed, vacant chamber inviting them in so seductively with its feigned safety.

With straight backs and blades, each man and woman equally equipped with the same knowledge on what to expect, they entered The Crypt Lord's Domain two years after their predecessors had fallen so cruelly without warning.

 _Not this time_ , they collectively thought _. No. Today, Naxxramas falls._

* * *

Bart scratched his beard absently. The growth had remained untouched in nearly two weeks, the elf now uncaring and extremely unwilling to care about such a minor matter. His mind had been preoccupied and distracted much to his chagrin, however this past week proved to provide a suitable diversion to such dark and self-depreciating thoughts since _she_ had left.

Now charged with the downfall of Naxxramas, Wintergarde and her allies set about mobilising the best taskforce available for such a large-scale assault. The reclamation of Lower Wintergarde nine –no, _ten-_ days ago now had caused such a commotion that they were sure Dalaran could have heard their cries of triumph- maybe even the Lich King himself. Hours after they recovered their dead and proper respects paid, Legionnaire, Crusader, Horde and Alliance alike drank and celebrated their deserved victory, only slightly wary of a potential counter-attack from Naxxramas that thankfully never came.

Bart had participated in the festivities briefly before his black mood that had hovered over him for the days past returned. Luckily, that was to alter the next morning. It was announced and advertised that Naxxramas was going to fall, and that they were going to be the ones to bring this about. Still revelling in the afterglow of such a successful allied counterattack against the Scourge forces, the higher ups of the Crusade, Legion, Expedition and Horde representatives all agreed to strike while the iron was hot. He may be a tailor by profession now, but he still understood the analogy well enough- and he was not sure if he had liked it or not.

Meetings had taken place up at the impregnable keep watching over Wintergarde, that much everyone knew. As plans were made and set in stone, the information filtered through the ranks to even the civilians such as him about what each faction was designated to do. The Crusaders were to take the _Arachnid Wing_. The Horde were to venture into the disturbingly named _Plague Quarter_ , and the Seventh Legion, necessarily bolstered and bulked with numbers from the Valiance Expeditionary Militia, were to assault the curiously dubbed _Construct Wing._

The survivors and able-bodied were to gather centrally afterwards before the remaining was to march on the last quarter. No one dare speak aloud about the possibility of such a group never forming should they fail.

Having been in charge of cloth supplies and assigned with the tailoring of shirts and capes from before, Bart had been approached by Commander Ashwood- a very fine woman in both nature and body, he had noted with respect- about using that cloth for medical purposes instead now.

Readily he agreed and the next few days were spent tearing up frostweave into suitable bandages, slings and even a few blankets in mind of preventing frost-related ailments from damaging any inevitable wounded further while they recovered. He worked with healers to tally and distribute the supplies locally and found himself also in charge of medical stores after his first day. The change in his operations and task had been a subtle and natural transition and he found it worked well to have someone heading the organisation of something so large. Everyone now confidently knew where the potions were, who needed more bandages and whether the Legionnaires required another healer or two to assist them come the raid and if so, would that one doctor from the Horde or that healer from the Crusade mind going along with them?

He had a working, confident knowledge of anatomy and wounds from days-long-past and was a self-proclaimed decent first-aider if the situation required it. Due to these skills, his sewing abilities, recent position as Chief-Medical-Organiser, steady hands _and_ strong back, the night elf now found himself standing in the chilling central core that was the lobby of Naxxramas. He honestly could never have pictured such an event occurring to him in his lifetime, yet here he stood.

The military assemblies had entered first, making sure all was clear and secure before allowing them, the stationary infirmary and potential surgery centre to gain entrance and set up shop, so to speak. With unspoken words of encouragement and fortitude, they had sent off the three groups of determined forces into their nominated divisions. A small armed band of twenty or so remained with the hospital, guarding the menders and physicians while they distributed the crates of iatric goods equally in their mostly-circular setup. No one neared the fourth unexplored wing, instead most of the unfolded stretchers now lay empty and ready on a raised dais resting above the very stone steps used to enter the citadel.

Satisfied that they were as prepared as could be, all they could do was to lay in waiting for the poor bastards that would fall to the traps and deadly threats that lay deeper within the walls of Naxxramas. Bart remained unsure as to whether he would rather be sitting there or charging forth with them in this instance. The waiting was ominous and painful, being left in the dark despite knowing how vital their services would be shortly.

For the longest time the screams and shouts of their peers and comrades had occasionally sifted through from the corridors and antechambers leading further in. Periodically moans and wails seemed to practically travel the entire length of the fortress, eerily being heard in all three-hundred-and-sixty degrees around them. Sure as the sun was to rise did many suspect that what they envisioned from such audio was nowhere near as gruesome as the real cause of it.

The sounds of combat sometimes drew their attention, draining blood from the faces of men and women alike, Bart included. Despite this, nerves remained held with great commendation. Many standing here were not customary or primary field-physicians. They were unused to seeing the wounded straight from the bloody fray and the shaking of some of their clenched hands gave that away. The tension was as thick as the vile odours lurking around them.

Bart was sure it was must have been a solid hour wherein no one had dare to move before the first trickle of wounded and fatalities were carried and dragged their way. The battle-healers could only do so much on the spot after all, the truly dire rest in their hands now, and he and his fellows could only hope they were prepared enough to save however many as possible this day.

* * *


	38. The Crypt Lord

The adrenaline was so addictive.

The _thrill,_ the _spring_ , the _jolt_ of vigour and sheer _determination_ that coursed through his entirety was a guilty pleasure that Ryndan allowed himself to experience only when fighting for survival. If he did not oblige a small joy in it, then he knew that the encroaching doubt and terror would inevitably swallow him whole instead, so it was when faced with one's potential death.

And so, in the childhood of his career the paladin had secretly grasped onto the exciting lightning bolt that struck him whenever entering battle and gave way to allowing it a distant domination over his actions. It had yet to fail him, this chaos-hidden-in-composure approach. _Remain in control of your swing, know where your feet are, never allow your opponent an opening_ \- all kernels of dogma and doctrine drilled into his head at the barracks and camps, and yet he sidestepped them; ignoring the pearls of wisdom from veterans past in favour of his own intuitive style. In his entire military history, it was the only time he disobeyed his superiors outright- and he would never let anyone know.

"A tactical genius, formidable on the battleground and an honest man" were all gifted subtitles that he unashamedly acknowledged about himself in good nature, but the wilder side of his could not be known. If his students were aware of how Ryndan truly fought, how he allowed biology to take heed over sensible logic, he feared they would try to follow his unintentional example and end up hurt- or worse.

And that was something Ryndan could not bear to burden.

Despite this foresight, it did not prevent the man from allowing his heart to beat faster, the blood to pump harder and his muscles to tense in combat readiness, the addiction already taking hold- he revelled in it. Not when he was face to face with their first –and hopefully not last- notable obstacle that lay between them and the downfall of the Dread Citadel, Naxxramas.

Unlike the primary report from two years ago, Anub'Rekhan seemed keen on greeting his guests personally this time- and he wasn't alone. Two alien creatures, made to seem far more mutated than the aged sketches the Crusade had been presented with four days ago, took idle stances beside their master.

"I heeear little hearts beeeating…Yesss…beating faster now…Sssoon the beating will ssstop!" The taunt was menacing and direct enough to cause several gasps behind Ryndan, the Crusaders' audible frights echoing like Its own voice in the acoustics of the domed room. Just a foot ahead of Ryndan, Ashwood hissed and readied her sabres.

"Talk all you wish, Creature of Naxxramas, but you are now faced with the might of The Argent Crusade; are you intelligent enough to know when to succumb tactically?" Her voiced carried clear and true to its intended recipient, but not without granting an underlying note of encouragement to her soldiers. Behind him, Ryndan heard the straightening of postures and determined growls of those ready to attack at a moment's notice. It hadn't escaped the paladin that their sole death knight stood slightly apart from the rest, but nevertheless he did not lack the same fixed, fierce gaze on the shelled creature ahead of them. There held a steely quality in the clenching of his jaw and unwavering focus on the beast, almost something personal between them- though what it may be was indeterminable. The gruesome looking two-hander in his seemingly-lackadaisical grip looked to the cold stone base of the room, but Ryndan knew it could be applied quicker than an eye-blink, so swift were Terowin's reflexes.

Not a moment had passed since Ashwood's call for submission before It assibilated a cruel laugh.

"Where to go? What to dooo? Sssooo many choicesss …that all end in pain…end in death…" Each syllable was elongated, stretched out in a harsh manner, designed to insight panic and imagery no doubt. The subtle hissing lay beneath, Its voice hindered by Its own anatomy but it worked to an admirable effect- initially.

Ryndan's Commander refused to be swayed. "Do you refuse to stand down, Minion of Arthas?"

Anub'Rekhan paid her no heed, continuing in Its jests and jeers. It only riled them further.

"Then so be it," the Crusade's leader spoke quietly. A swift turn presented her full-on to her regiment. Keen eyes drank in the sight- men and women, elves and humans, draenei and dwarves, gnomes and trolls. All shared a look, a face that can only present itself in a situation like this. And she was made fearless by their collective ferocity.

No words of encouragement, no speech of honour-in-death nor a prayer to carry them safely left her lips. Instead she nodded- a gesture which radiated her loyalty, pride and faith in the people standing before her. Without further ado, she turned on her heel a final time, brandished her weaponry high and charged forward and with cries to The Light.

And so The Argent Crusade went to war.

Their enemy welcomed the attack and skittered forward heavily towards them- but they would not meet It there, not yet.

Instead the group split into two at an unseen signal, forking in opposing directions- towards the Crypt Lord's own minions. These atrocities had bounded inelegantly at the movement of their master but had not expected to be rushed as was made evident by the pause in their ambling gait.

Ashwood, as planned, had continued to run forward towards the shelled-creature claiming dominion of this room, and met It in mêlée. Two of their most experienced healers followed her at a distance, standing centrally- as was planned.

Ryndan had veered to the left hand side where Edrikson had volunteered to take charge of the spider-monster, his shield raised high as he made contact with its first blows. A forceful knock with his heavy mace to a fore-leg caused the spider to stumble but ultimately drew its attentions to the younger paladin allowing the rest to approach its side and attack it with calculated haste. Lieutenant Commander Firesworn ventured quickly to the far side of it, weaving away from the hairy appendages dancing back and forth as it parried with the Sergeant. The main body was thick but unguarded, _this was good_ , Ryndan thought. Envisioning the crumpled paper that was supposed to have depicted this creature, he disregarded it immediately, there was little comparison despite the best wishes of the dying woman's descriptions. This creature held no bodily shell, unlike Anub'Rekhan, but that didn't mean it was any less deadly, as a quick glance to Edrikson confirmed.

Stumbling, several in close proximity to it fell and moved backwards as the creature reared up on its hind legs before it threw its weight forward, using its claws to slice forth with all of its weight and strength. Ryndan could barely gasp before Edrikson manoeuvred his shield, halting one jagged claw but not the other. A disgruntled cry tore from him, but he rebuffed it with his glowing mace, granting enough time to regain his ground again.

Determining that Edrikson was back in power over the creature's attentions, the group returned to their combined efforts to bring it down. Ryndan raised his sword and attempted several stabs and slices to the main body but to little avail, others made the same progress- none. Their own battle-mages stood slightly afar from them, aiming their spellfire and magic unto the body also but to no fruition as they were bouncing off into nothing or doing little enough damage to cause any major harm.

They needed to end this swiftly, a habitual glance towards Ashwood informed him that – " _Oh shit!"_

Several screams and cries of horror resounded as Ryndan had turned in time to witness Anub'Rekhan thrust Its own massive claws into the ground- and ruptured all the stones in the immediate vicinity to his front. One of the healers in the centre was thrown into the air as sharp spikes of – _he didn't know what_ \- had burst from beneath his feet, the man momentarily floating in the putrid air before he sped back towards the earth, meeting it in a sickening crunch on the broken slabs. Horror temporarily grasping him, Ryndan swallowed and tore his gaze from the unmoving body. Their immediate target had gained a little ground amidst the rumble of confusion on Edrikson and in defiance, Ryndan with conviction renewed, entered a minor frenzy upon the beast that resulted in a partial severing of its hind-limb.

The Light shone on him.

"Aim for the legs! Hack them off!" he called through his visor, sweat and saliva spitting out with his orders, but he cared not, they could gain advantage here. And gain it they did. The back legs gave way with vengeful hissing from their owner, the body stumbling in frustration and retaliated with harsher and quicker strikes- and not just at Edrikson.

Its upper body was twisting and contorting now in its pain and evident panic. No longer in full control of its motor functions as it entered its own frenzy, Ryndan recognised signs of an impending last-ditch effort to take out as many of them as possible and called out for a swift retreat. It took two more cries and even some shoving on Ryndan's behalf to pull the soldiers from attacking the beast further, narrowly missing a fatal strike as the claws swung wild and gracelessly. The spider faltered in its fever and careened backwards at Edrikson's pushing insistence. The magic-wielders doubled their efforts as the melee backed further away from the crazed creature before it found itself on the edge of the room- just as one last shove from the Sergeant sent it lurching into the green mire encircling the entire chamber. Strangled hisses and crackled foreign curses emitted from the 'mouth' of the fiend, the mandibles flexing and straining as its claws failed to get a grasp onto anything tangible.

The slime engulfed it wholly and acidly, only remnants of it floating in the crude substance, its vile work complete.

Overcome with a fleeting sense of victory, the left-delegated group now could turn their focus onto the rest of the room, and almost faltered like the creature they had just buried at the sight.

The Right-Hand-Side was struggling. The assigned soldier who was to bear the aggravation from _that fiend_ \- much like Edrikson had done- was lying in a crumpled heap, the froth bubbling from his visor easily visible from the distance of nearly seventy feet away. In his stead Terowin had taken up the position of the distraction for the beast to focus on while the rest were to cut it down. Ryndan and his company were already moving towards the other group- forced to run around the now-broken room centre- when the creature fell victim to a vicious blow from Terowin's axe. The blade had caught the underside of its throat as it had reared up in readiness to crush him and a spurt of coagulated liquid burst forth from the wound in a sporadic spray. Its death came swiftly before the Lieutenant Commander and his group could even reach them. Admittedly not as neat, if such a word could be applied, as the death of their own target, but the deed was done nonetheless. There only stood one last creature to die in this room now.

Ryndan clasped a hand on the death knight's armoured shoulder when he reached him and drew his attention, nodding towards their initially-assigned leader on the floor.

"Poison," Terowin spat at the corpse of the venom-deliverer. "He got caught by those bloody mandibles and there was no saving him." The paladin would have been lying if he said that he did not nearly had the wind knocked from him at this news- they had had no idea how deadly the spiders' own jowls could have been if any of them had been caught by them. Luckily, it was of little consequence to know now as they were taken care of. The hairs on the back of his neck didn't rest though.

The plan was working well so far. The tactic to eradicate any extra personnel in the chamber had been agreed upon days ago by Ashwood, Dawnbringer and himself before taking on the main target, Anub'Rekhan, otherwise just to aim straight for the main beast. All involved infantry had been informed of the overall plan and what to expect with several hours-long lectures about the possible creatures laying in wait for them and their preparation had paid off beautifully.

Reforming, the hard grunts of Ashwood using all of her might to fend off the Crypt Lord drew their attention to the situation at hand. She had managed to turn his body sidewards to the chamber, with her back now dangerously poised towards the outer rim holding the deadly ooze. Her reasons for this action escaped Ryndan before he realised it was to prevent any more deaths at Its dangerous ground-upheaval-stunt. Another involuntary glance towards the broken-healer sparked an anger in Ryndan that he struggled to maintain.

"Positions!" He called, alerting all to the next part of their strategy. The healers and spellcasters, being the less-armoured and therefore more-at-risk of the group held back, while the general soldiery were to bring up the rear and relieve Ashwood if possible. Now, due to the cracked and uneven ground in the middle, their intended positioning became disturbed, but they were Crusaders and adapted swiftly. Leading the vanguard, Ryndan pressed forward to strike the monster's back-limb with The Holy Light.

His attack did nothing to it.

The force of impact of Ryndan's sword rebounded so violently that the Sin'dorei felt his body shake in his armour and quickly held his position to halt it. His jaw sore from gritting so hard, the paladin struck again and again, and cried in disbelief as the same happened. Its own biological armour was too hard- Ryndan noted that the others held similar problems, all looking like lumberjacks hacking a stubborn stump with nought but butter knives. Even Terowin, towards the back, made no visible injuries upon Its legs, he heeded with notable exasperation.

Panic started to creep into his mind, he could hear it in the alarmed shouts of frustration from the battle-mages as well; not even they were getting through. It wasn't until he tasted blood did he realise his own cheek was bitten inside.

"Hold your ground, keep trying!" A rapid- and slightly desperate- prayer to The Light for aid imbued Ryndan's strength and he raised his beloved weapon high once more. Feet planted heavily, arms held steady, the paladin fixated on a dark point, just below the thicker part of the armour. He took a deep breath, all sound faded into the background.

This moment was his, and his alone. The Light answered his prayer, Ryndan feeling that connection to everything and nothing that was around him and drew power from it. It was pure, delicate but insurmountable- there was no metal or element to compare to it and it felt as enveloping as the first time he had ever experienced it. His Faith swelled in response.

It flowed through him, in each vein and nerve, both inside and outside his naked body, invigorating him in such a way that adrenaline never could. It reached his fingertips, and this was the time to strike, he knew.

The blade fell true…and it did nothing once more.

The thick leg, as round as five men combined, was unaffected by his strike. No wound, no dent or indication of injury prevailed there and it was not until Ryndan raised his blade in vexation to attack again did he realise that the leg had in fact damaged _him_ , or more precisely, his own weapon.

A small chip, no larger than a fingernail, presented itself half-way up the edge, its missing counterpart now lost to the confines of the dirt-ridden stone beneath his feet. He had little time to mourn the imperfection of the sword as the large body of Anub'Rekhan veered back heavily once more, Its brutally sharp claws now raising high up again. Ashwood's uneasy stance as she watched intently appeared for a moment from Ryndan's position through the space where It had occupied a bare second previous before her form curled and threw to the side in a roll- just in time to avoid the thundering pound of Anub'Rekhan's intended impale on her. Sparing a gasp of relief at her reflexes it wasn't until a startled exclamation from several around him informed him that she had gone awry- she had rolled the wrong way.

Anub'Rekhan lifted its head up from the ground, solidly and with ease pulling his claws free from the upturned ground. Ryndan was quick to notice that due to her positioning, the radius of that particular blow was limited only to a small corner of the room, narrowly missing the beginnings of the fatal moat and upturning minimal stonework. His time to muse was cut short as the Crypt Lord spun his body a swift quarter turn- several close-ranged soldiers scrambling to escape the heavy steps of his large, bulbous feet- and now promptly present his back full on to the raid and chamber.

This may have proved an advantage, having the monster so blind to Its attackers, if it weren't for the horrifying and startling fact that Commander Ashwood now lay trapped between their prey and the back of the room. Anub'Rekhan was pressed so far forward, that even from the concealed angle of where she stood, the Crusaders could tell there was little room for her to parry effectively. Its stance hunched over further, enclosing the warrior in a tomb of pre-emptive death.

"Quickly! We must attack with force!" someone cried and so they, as one, harried forth with their attacks, desperate to free their Commander. If It was to attack in that manner again, she was a goner- and they were not for having that. Hysteria was encircling around them all, Ryndan knew for he was beginning to feel its tendrils lace around his own frame of mind, but the thought of tearing this creature down was the only thing preventing the fear from winning out. Nonsensical and practiced words of encouragement and strength forced themselves from his throat. What he shouted, he did not recall, but he did what he could until his voice box grew harsh with the strain.

Abruptly Anub'Rekhan's body altered sharply, causing many to draw back automatically. With horrified awe they watched on as Its back seemed to _open up-_ not unlike a bud blooming, but this bud was far from sweet and natural.

Yells and outcries- including Ryndan's own- resounded as one as a dark cloud of – _of insects!_ unleashed themselves into the air. A- a _swarm_ hovered momentarily above Anub'Rekhan before it began a pinpointed descent that sent everyone in the near vicinity of the Crypt Lord scrambling- apart from one.

Unseen beyond Anub'Rekhan, Ashwood's shrieks and angered roars resonated as the insects encircled around It, doing damage in unknown ways to anyone who stood in their path. Recovering from his horror, Ryndan turned to organise a recoup just as two senior paladins- Corporals Jason and Danila leapt forward, charging forth past him with unbridled speed. Brandishing his own small-shield, Danila forced his way into the ever-circling locusts and barred their path partially with his armament. It allowed enough of a break in the insects' system to allow Jason and now Sergeant Riverwind to haul themselves up the back of Anub'Rekhan's outer shell. Deftly they elevated him, Danila falling back, his small draenei frame heaving with exertion from withholding such a force, and the Crusaders watched on as the man and blood elf climbed. The shimmer of tell-tale golden haloes around the pair was evidence of their Priests' divine protections on them, hopefully barring any and all harm should they fall.

The Commander's screams had not lessened, in fact they had grown more frantic as the creature bearing down on her laughed cruelly- and was cut short by Jason's broadsword breaking entry at the base of his neck. Anub'Rekhan's anger was quick to incite as with a speed unbefitting his size, he spun sharply, throwing both Jason and Riverwind from his body-

-And cleaving Jason in twain with Its claws.

Dying in battle was not unexpected, and every person standing in that chamber that day was aware of this fact before entering service. Ignorance to the possibility of a violent, bloody death was unheard of, but even so, there was something primal, something _carnal_ in seeing the brutal murder of a fellow man that ignited a grievous passion that overwrote any and all combat training. The Crusaders saw red as his body flew in opposing directions- the torso landed against the far wall before sliding vulgarly down it- his blood painting a ghastly trail. The legs; Ryndan did not see their destination. His _own_ legs were already moving of their own accord, pushing hard into the ground with each step as his stride became more purposeful- and he was mindful enough to note that he was not the only one.

With a renewed resolve, the Argent Crusade inflicted the full force of their might upon Anub'Rekhan. Someone had taken up his attentions once more- a moment of clarity revealed it to be Sergeant Edrikson fiercely battling along the far west side- while everyone else attacked with unguarded animosity. Noticing their newfound strength, the large monster attempted yet another impaling manoeuvre, only to be impeded by his own strength.

As these gigantic claws fell forward, Edrikson rolled away onto his shield much like Ashwood had, the tips of Anub'Rekhan's fore-limbs safely embedded into the disturbed rock. Two of their largest Crusaders- a draenei whom Ryndan could not recall and a Tauren who had joined the ranks weeks before Light's Hope charged forward together and using their brute force, crashed their heavy-maces unto the tops of Its arms: successfully pushing them deeper into the ground. The cry of fury emanating from Anub'Rekhan's bowed head did not go unheard and fuelled the raid further in their combined efforts.

Temporarily stuck, they were allowed a second chance to evaluate It standing still without a comrade being in danger. Glinting, there several feet above him, stood Jason's blade, extruding out beautifully like the proverbial needle in the intimidating haystack.

Ryndan sprinted to the battle-mages and healers, now aligned on the west-side of the central crack in the room. "He has weak areas- aim for any cracks in his armour; note the blade!" he called. They nodded fiercely, also having noticed the weapon representing what could be their only hope at survival and victory. A habitual, studious glance told Ryndan all he needed to know about the state of his magic-users; they were tiring swiftly. If the only weak areas were only visible at a distance, then the melee could do little to aid the ranged. Voices of encouragement from the soldiers intensified their efforts visibly however as the illuminations from elemental-spells and even Holy Fires became brighter.

Swearing, Ryndan knew this wouldn't keep up long and he ventured forth only to be struck in a minor daze- the swarm, where had it gone? In their anger, they had not even accounted for the tiny insects that had invaded them from Anub'Rekhan's own shelled-chassis. A distasteful crunching beneath his feet hinted at the now-hundreds-if-not-thousands of small husks being crushed into the stone slabs by sturdy Crusader boots. What-?

"Limited lifespan, I would wager!" Terowin's deep baritone called out beside Ryndan as they surveyed the floor. A rather hasty and estimated calculation indicated that they had possibly not been alive for any more than two, possibly three minutes in their existence. He almost made to ask why before realising it didn't matter- and that Anub'Rekhan was breaking free from his temporary bondage. Soon enough he elevated to near his full height- staggeringly close to the height of the chamber itself.

For the first time in their brief meeting, the Crusaders as a whole gazed upon Its face.

Black, undersized and seething with rage, Anub'Rekhan regarded them with fiercely wild eyes. A new personality was now added to the weight of the fight, their foe now possessed an identifiable identity beyond a hulking, impenetrable shell. _It_ was now _He_ , a startling revelation that shook many as He bayed loud and dangerously- a small mouth with a distorted shape venting its furore. It was easy to attack something when it was a thing, but when it had a face to put to the name, all of a sudden it possessed an idividuality, and that was sometimes a very difficult thing to fight, especially when attempted outright slaughter of the foe. Ryndan briefly worried if this would be a problem, but his fears were laid to rest almost as soon as they came into existence. A stray bolt of fire from a brave individual struck the underbelly crucially causing unsightly physical pain for the recipient- much to the mixed shock and disbelief of those who had witnessed it.

Their brief scepticism remained just that as the entire bulk of the Crypt Lord spasmed forward to the floor and so they were moving once more. Quick to his duty, Edrikson took up lead position again, attempting to coerce His attentions that way, now facing southwards. Awkward spellcasts bounced off of the floor and by the legs as they had all realised the domineering chink in His armour that lay so close to the ground. It was no use- the fleshy underparts were well protected by how low he held his body and shy of laying beneath him and casting upwards- at a risk of being quashed by His own body- there was little they could do to reach it.

Anub'Rekhan's fury-filled wails continued, his one-critical wound causing him more pain than he anticipated this battle round, and it wasn't until Ryndan was pulled from the fray roughly did he remember that Ashwood had yet to be accounted for. Now she stood, armour torn off in a heap where she had been trapped, only standing in her undershirt and leggings, beside him her violet skin pustulous and agitated – from only the bites of those locusts laying beneath her feet. She swayed dangerously, her grip on him hard.

"The- the back- when he-" she coughed violently, earning the attention of two nearby healers who sought to her immediate attention. To their horror, several of the insects- now dead- exited her mouth. Spitting intermittently, she looked to Ryndan sharply.

The back, she had said- and that was all that needed to be said. When He released the swarm, his husk, the shell rose up- Ryndan could envision it now- revealing his flesh. Strike there! Too preoccupied had he been by the rising cloud of death had he failed to immediately notice the advantageous opening there. Like the flies entering Ashwood's armour in all cracks and crevices, so they too would attack his least-guarded spots. He turned and sprinted to the group.

A furrowed flash revealed Edrikson struggling to hold his position against Anub'Rekhan, being pushed tentatively close towards the semi-circular pit of slime.

"The flesh- the back! When he raises his husk, concentrate your efforts there! Hold off until then!" The Lieutenant Commander relayed his orders as orderly and quickly as he could, allowing them to pass the message on to anyone who did not hear immediately.

Instead of dreading a repeat, they now anticipated it as their possible last hope of defeating the Undead beast- Ryndan silently hoped that the swarm had not been a one-time thing. Having been hovering back, Firesworn now sent in the blade- and weapon-wielders into the direct fray, to attack and puncture what they could of the underbelly until the husks parted once more. They had nodded and saluted their affirmations, a near-twenty Crusaders venturing forth over demolished stone to gain what vantage they could.

It was hopefully not too long now, as the young Sergeant was grunting in- "NOW!"

The husk was parting and a new swarm gathered. Like clockwork, the melee fell back and the spellcasters took precedent. Their short break had done the trick as the focus of their attacks grew to an amazing crescendo. Caught in his own gathering offensive, Anub'Rekhan seemingly could not call off the swarm so easily once He had produced it and Ryndan took a great satisfaction in that.

A shriek of agony drew their survey from the damage as Ryndan turned to clap eyes upon a hideous creature befalling a battle-mage. Vaulting forward, Ryndan reached the spider-fiend first and chopped away at its pointed arms until it focused all attentions on him. Barely taking the time to register the reappearance of yet another of Anub'Rekhan's minions, Ryndan channelled his efforts on steering it away from his spellcasters- the husk was now closing and their window of opportunity had vanished with its closure. Ryndan doubted Anub'Rekhan would try that again, knowing he was opening himself up to fatal vulnerability.

Clenching his jaw, the adrenaline in full flow, Lieutenant Commander Firesworn maintained his position dodging the harsh attacks of the spider. Up close and personal he had to admit it was an ugly specimen of a being. Glinting black eyes- several of them- peered down unblinking in undoubtable blood-lust, while the venom-tipped; he could see it now, mandibles clacked at him in hard attempts to infect him. Shieldless and in close mêlée with the monstrosity granted little room to use his two-handed sword effectively. By sheer skill and blind trust in his own bodily reflexes did he dodge and deflect enough to allow others to thwart the fiend. Speedily the spider-creature fell forward, Ryndan scarcely side-stepping before the fatal blow was dealt and nearly became victim to the mandibles that had already claimed another only several minutes beforehand.

Catching his breath, but not staying long enough to halt the adrenaline, he moved with the rest of the soldiers who had come to his aid towards Anub'Rekhan- who seemed to be being lead _around_ the outside of the room heading towards the back again.

"Wh-what is he doing?" Ryndan gasped to the nearest figure he could reach who had witnessed the proceedings since before the spider-minion had sprung forth. The woman didn't even look to him as he spoke, her gaze fixated on the giant figure being lead away from the group.

"It's that death knight sir, he took over from the Sergeant-" she pointed a shaking hand to the collapsed Edrikson who lay next to a half-choking Ashwood by the entryway. "-When the Sergeant collapsed, it seems to be the fumes sir, it killed the flies dead off but hurt the Sergeant, sir, so he, that is the death knight- is leading Anub'Khan 'round the slime to kill the flies, sir." Her dialect was country-ish, but Ryndan found it somewhat a small comfort. Amazing! In awe they watched until all of the locusts had fallen to the opaque fumes before making another move inwards.

Upon close inspection, the legs which had previously been aside to the fatal moat was now singed and affected. A cry of elation escaped him when Ryndan brought down his blade upon the thick-armour only to see it dissipate a minor fraction. Again and again he hacked it, the hope sparking in his stomach, unaware that it had been quenched in the first place. Others joined him while Terowin held fast towards the back of the room, holding his own against the beast. Within moments of focused, direct assaults, a large crisp of inorganic plating fell away from Anub'Rekhan's hind leg onto the floor. Cheers and acclamations echoed forth, with several brutal bolts and balls-of-magic flew overhead and struck markedly on the exposed flesh. The effect was instant.

Anub'Rekhan, losing concentration and armour, collapsed on His back leg with a howl of torment, His claws thrust either side of Terowin amidst His fall.

Incapacitated and inured, Anub'Rekhan ventured another swarm- and Ryndan was adamant that this was to be His last. Calling forth charge, Firesworn unnecessarily directed the battle-mages' attacks towards the now-bare flesh of the under-husk. Hisses and cries of pain elicited from him and the Crusade was empowered. Some threw their weapons, hurling their own efforts at spellfire, attempting to do what they could to bring the beast down. Such was their Big Push that Ryndan suppressed his annoyance at Commander Ashwood rejoining the fray-carrying her sabres only, her rallying cry propelling all efforts forward tenfold- to invoke The Light once more. So intense was their steadfastness and willpower that the sheer strength of their concentrated attack blasted off one-half of his husk, permanently revealing the Destruction of the Crypt Lord.

With one final, undulating, gurgling wheeze, Anub'Rekhan fell motionless to the ground, his visible flesh bubbling gruesomely.

And then there was silence.

Incredulity. Dubiety. Disbelief.

It was palpable with every gasping breath taken, with every unspoken word, with each unmoved limb that acceptance at the downfall of their foe could not be had. Not yet.

Nor was it- a shrill scream rattled their battle-shaken nerves as all turned to witness the four scattered bodies- and three of the fallen crypt-fiends- rupture. The grotesque forced movement of devoured flesh reached their ears and in horror they watched on as small, hand-sized shadows emerged from the fallen bodies of their dearest friends and fallen minions in numbers. High on stress and anxiety, the soldiers darted forth automatically, Ryndan conjuring his Consecrated Ground beneath the body of the fallen healer centrally, impeding the… _creatures_ no further venture into the room as they sizzled under Holy Power. Across the room, the gruesome red-glow of Terowin's own Runic Circle sat beneath the severed corpse of the now dessicated torso of former Corporal Jason. Behind, a priest had exuded a brilliant arc of her own Holy Power, projecting it several times until all of the skittering insects fell still on their backs.

Anub'Rekhan's dying cry had been more than it seemed, apparently.

Several moments of no movement passed before anyone dared to speak of their victory, as if saying such a thing out loud prematurely would cause Anub'Rekhan to rise again and slaughter them all where they stood scattered and weary.

It wasn't until the doors behind them had broken open of their own accord did freedom and small, fluttering hope dared make itself known.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may (or may be not?) be pleased to know that I have no intention of describing each boss fight from Naxx as that ^ was the most mentally exhausting chapter I have written to date, and I've been transcribing a lot of this for over a year now, despite only publishing in July '13. It was initially going to be split in two but I decided against it knowing that my readers could handle it. I forewent some of my usual...poetry, shall we say? in favour of a simpler-stated narrative to try to grasp the sudden going-ons of a fast-paced fight. Unusually, I will actively ask your opinions on this particular chapter so that I have relevant critique to focus on areas for development for future boss-fight-chapters.
> 
> Officially up-to-date with the ff.net counterpart as of this chapter. I don't expect as wide an audience on Ao3 but even if one reader enjoys my story on here then I'm happy to have provided some reading pleasure :)


	39. The Unclean

“Look at this stuff, it’s re _mark_ able! Not unlike the flora in the Plaguelands, mind- but just notice how it manages to _thrive_ in isolation- in the air nonetheless! No earthly attachments whatsoever! I shall need samples of these...oh, copious samples! Check this discolouration! Nothing like I’ve ever seen before!” Muffled sounds of fiddling and fumbling were heard atop the fanatical exclamations.

“You brought a- a, what is that? A _toolkit_ to a _Dread Necropolis_?”

He shrugged. “Apothecary’s habit, I guess Mr. Walden- just in case there was anything in here to further our _other_ research. I mean, this is a _gigantic floating hub_ of Undead beings unlike ourselves. “

“Ah, yes- of course,” Mort nodded sagely. The man beside him fumbled more with his worn satchel, withdrawing several vials and a leather case that he folded out onto the uneven ground beneath their feet. Mort watched with feigned interest as the case unfolded revealing scalpels, callipers, tweezers and a variety of other unnameable …objects. Mort, even equipped with his keen intelligence, couldn’t fathom the use for some of the so-called-tools he caught a glimpse of, and instead turned his attention to the ruckus occurring many yards beyond them. The pair stood at the very entrance of the seemingly-endless corridor jutting off from the very chamber where Noth lay slain in a crumbled heap, turning to dust. The rest of their…party…were currently engaged in paving the way forward, multitudes of undead creatures laying in wait. A pitiful defence offered up by Naxxramas judging by how swiftly they fell. The Undead and Horde versus undead hordes, Mort chuckled to himself.

“Blasted curses- damn these robes!”

Crossing his arms, Mort peered down to the Apothecary once more. Overly long sleeves and a cape that refused to stay over-shouldered were hindering his efforts in gathering his samples of the unseemly fungi decorating their passageway. Mort couldn’t help but find it amusing. Momentarily, Herod creaked to standing again and slunk to the nearest wall to begin his retrieval.

“Remarkable…” he uttered again. How mundane.

“Why is it remarkable, pray tell good alchemist?” the elder of the two called mockingly. Truthfully, he was bored- Noth had proved little challenge for the Horde to lay to rest, Naxxramas probably doubting the insatiable bloodlust the majority of them felt when entering into battle; it was what they lived for…but mainly died from…

 And so Noth had fallen with minimal casualties, underestimating the frenzy that only orcs, trolls and tauren could provide. The handful of sin’dorei and Forsaken were more…collected, he felt. Habits of manners and propriety from years gone past still at work within the long-dead for the most part- or at least it was for Mort and that allowed them to keep their wits about while their Kalimdor-counterparts were more than a little unruly. Image was important and right now he was projecting a facade of protecting a fellow kinsmen while he gathered suitable and viable specimens to further the research of the almighty Royal Apothecary Society- _highly important and of the utmost attention thank you very much._

Mort stifled a snort.

“Well- there’s vegetation here that I’ve never even seen before, sir! Just- just look! It’s – I mean- oh wow, I cannot wait to look into you further, you little beauty,” he trailed off again. Disturbed, Mort peered over his shoulder and witnessed the bottling of a clump of oddly-shaped mushroom fragments. Unimpressed, he retook his stance of nearby-and-over-there-just-in-case and crossed his arms.

“Indeed, I hope it’s all the findings you wish it to be, Master Apothecary.”

“Yeah!” He called over his shoulder, “we need it after that setback a week ago!”

The Baron knew that if his physical nerves were in any way at all intact, he would have flinched involuntarily. It was just over seven days now- nine in fact- since Cersae had ‘disappeared’ and caused an uproar in Venom Point, the apothecaries finally wise to her scheme and deception.

 _“‘Ventured’?! Ventured_ how _?!”_ He heard the rising panic in Ryndan’s voice again. High from battle, delivering the news to the Paladin of her disappearance had caused more of an effect than Mort had intended when they had met on the battlefield.

 _“She had an argument with a priest.”_ Mort had told him on the fields of Lower Wintergarde that dreary day _. “Stormed out of the building and refused to look back. I-I followed her all the way out into the field, Ryndan. I couldn’t keep up with her until she stumbled. She was done with the Society, she says. Wanted her abilities and powers back apparently- the plague wasn’t enough for her, Ryndan! I- I tried to do what I could but to no avail. She detained me and – and went forth to the Death Knight’s camps.”_

He remembered how Ryndan had stared at him; sweat-drenched and grasping at his dislocated shoulder unable to comprehend these words, his ragged pants the only thing he could verbalise.

 _“ ‘Wanted her powers back’?”_ Darksworn had commented- and was the only thing he’d said on the matter. A swift glance told Mort that Terowin was finding that a tough pill to swallow, or even put in his mouth in the first place, but it wasn’t Terowin he had to convince. Ryndan, burdened with pain and coupled with dizzying adrenaline had swayed dangerously.

 _“Gone to Naxx…ramas…”_ the man uttered, looking more than devastated. Perhaps- perhaps Ryndan was more taken with her than Mort had surmised. Brooding over the expression the paladin had borne several days later, Mort could see in a fresh light exactly how put out Ryndan had been by this news _… “Walden- what are you saying? That when we next encounter her-_ if _we encounter her- she’s going to be a full-fledged Death Knight?”_

With a brief hesitation, Mort had confirmed this as a possibility, also informing him that she may not be a Death Knight at all. She may have been rejected by them for turning traitor, he had told the elf. _“And if that’s the case_ ,” Mort stated grievously, “ _then we’ve seen the last of her already, Dan_.”

Neither said anything more on the subject of the waxen woman. The next week or so had been taken up with military operations and preparations for the Siege of Naxxramas. Mort hadn’t seen Ryndan often in those days while he flitted between camps as messenger boy, but he was throwing himself into his work with borderline frenzied tenacity.

A dislocating of Mort’s own joint reawakened him to the present and supressing a curse to make The Dark Lady blush, the Baron reattached his jaw tentatively _\- again._ A subtle re-evaluation of his surrounding informed him that firstly; Herod was now picking leaves from some shrivelled shrubbery and containing them. Secondly, the group was near out of sight up ahead, a plethora of decomposing, incongruent corpses paving the way to them and lastly there was a woman striding towards them with a very determined step, her- no _his,_ he could see up close now- dark robes billowing ridiculously. A mace rest at his hips and a libram appeared to be attached to his belt, the pages bouncing open with each step he took towards them.

“Care to join the rest of us or are you going to play gardening?” the blood-elf stated, reaching them promptly. Mort knew the face from before; probably New Agamand or Vengeance Landing. Herod was far too preoccupied to notice the visitor.

“This is extremely important data-collecting on behalf of the Royal Apothecary Society, priest. We will be done shortly- right, Master Alchemist?”

“Hmm? Oh! Yes, of course! Hail Reverend! I’m nearly done-“

“You couldn’t do this perhaps _after_ we’ve dealt with the dwellers of Naxxramas? And I’m not a Reverend-”

“Well, I mean we could-“ Herod started.

“No! We must take advantage now while we are here.” Mort cut across, straightening to the audible protestation of his skeleton. “What if this young man were to die in the line of fire? Who then would be gifted enough to delicately pick the samples in the right amount, with such precision, pray tell, priest? He is the only one clever enough, with the foresight to pack his own toolkit; look at these instruments! These are not the tools of an amateur! No, my dear elf, this is a man who knows what he is doing and I am protecting him should anything sneak up on us from behind. Finally! Should this brave young alchemist indeed fall then at least I, Baron Walden, am aware of his motives and research and on my honour would be able to deliver the vials unto our brothers.” Mort was smooth and unfaltering in his deliverance, bowing his head as he reached the peak of his dialogue and sneaking a glance to the now-horrified Apothecary Herod who was no doubt taken aback at the blatant stating of his potential demise. A smirk was suppressed as he awaited the no doubt haughty response.

But no, to his surprise the blood elf _laughed._

“I understand, Master Forsaken, though there was no need to be so emphatic in your reasoning. Come, we need you both promptly – a scout has delivered word that our next major target is Heigan.” The priest left them so swiftly that he did not see the flash of hatred streak across Mort’s damaged features.

Heigan. The Father of the Illness that had swept through Walden’s own homeland, twisting and distorting the fertile, pure earth into the noxious infestation now spanning the north of the Eastern Kingdoms. Any fond memories held of travelling those pathways had been long forgotten; destroyed with each new patch of rot and fungus that sprung forth to disgrace the once-proud Northern Lordaeron. Finding little profit in allowing emotion a place in his decision-making, the Baron normally kept such volatile reactions under control, but sometimes the venom needs to bleed out…

Two dagger-handles found their way into their master’s steel grip, whispering sweet words of pain and torment, promising fulfilment by their blade-edges.

Time to indulge in a little revenge, the once-man resolved, and if it happened to be gruesome and excruciating, then _what a shame that may be_ …

“Done! Oh I am going to have a field day with these samples!”

* * *

 “It’s Heigan! The _Unclean!”_

“That Alliance Dawn-man said he was the Plague maker!”

“I don’t want to get touched by no plague!”

“Shut up you fools, he can probably hear us!”

“Look- we all just need to-“

“You hard what he sed, der be plague in der!”

“We can take him; we killed Noth! We can kill him!”

“Yeah!”

“You all need to stop-!”

“Blood and Thunder!”

“Hey! We need to slow down-!”

“Lok’tar Ogar!”

“FOR THE HORDE!”

“Listen!”

“Coat our weapons with his blood!”

“Bring him down!”

“You’re all being too hasty-!”

“Decorate the halls with his entrails!”

“Right that does it!”

“Tear him down-“

Silence fell at once; a burst of arcane energy shocking the fanatics immediately for enough time to shut them up.  A troll, blue-skinned and covered in _strikingly orange_ armour stood slightly above the stunned crowd, long arms gesturing and tri-fingered hands flexing agitatedly.

“I sed _kwi-et!_ You are all try-ing to rush into dis wit-out a plan! Tink! We need to have a stra-tegy!” she cried. Squinting, Mort recognised her from New Agamand and a recent arrival at Venom Point. She continued talking, attempting to keep the hot-blooded among the group attentions. “If he is a-ware of ower prez-ence den _why_ has he not con-fron-ted us here, eh? Be-caz he wants us to go _to him_.” A ripple of slow realisation spread through the gathered masses. _Morons._

“He wants us on his terri-tory and we will pro-bably have to go _in der_. So!” She raised her voice over the rising whispers. Mort was amazed at the complacent obedience they all paid her at such short notice. Officially, this group had no elected leader or frontman, having rushed onto Noth overconfident and weaponry raised high. Luckily, it had worked despite minor demurrals from the more level-headed. This time however, it didn’t seem to be such a good idea. Not against Heigan.

Mort’s grip on his daggers tightened marginally.

“We hav’ to be pre-pared! No rush-ing in to da fray! If we are to come out of dis a-live, we _need_ to be smart-“

“Are you calling us stupid?!” A hulking green orc in _horrifically_ ugly brown armour strode forth through the parting crowd, defiance written on his scrunched face- his battered helmet was held in his hands. Mort thought he looked like a pig’s corpse that’s been under the butcher’s mallet one-too-many times. And that was being nice about it, he reckoned.

“No, Grom’dar- I am calling you battle-tirsty and we can-not be like dat, not to-day if we are to savive!” she countered, conviction strong in her voice at her heckler. ‘Grom’dar’ was less than convinced judging by the scrunching of his squashed face.

“I say we charge forth now!” he grunted, turning to the others. Surveying his companions, Mort eyed bloodlust in some eyes, wariness in others. Some flitted between the two warring personalities. The troll looked on silently, judging and weighing her options no doubt. “We slew _Noth._ Why should this Heigan be any different? We are Horde! We are sons and daughters of Thrall! Of Grom! Of Ogrimm! We will slay anything in our path with honour and no one shall dare look down at the might that is The Horde!”

A handful cheered, raising their blades and staves in the air. Mort saw that more than a few remained unconvinced; and so did Grom’dar. Turning, he looked to each of his fellow Horde.

“What is the matter with you all? Where is your sense of battle? Your thirst for revenge? How many have lost loved ones to the creatures of Naxxramas?! _To the cowardly bastard hiding away to the far north?!”_ he cried again, now raising his own crude axe high above him. Even fewer cheered this time.

“You are too hasty, Grom’dar. Dese people are smart and _know_ we need plans for dis if we are to live,” the troll spoke again.

“Don’t speak down to me, female! I am the slayer of Ymiron! Conqueror of Utgarde!” he spat in response, anger flowing through his entirety. Mort watched on amused, unconcerned by the banal politics of Horde organisation. “You just want us to act like them. Like the Alliance!” he accused. Several hisses and gasps echoed through the halls. _Now there was a challenge_ , Mort’s interest piqued a tad. The ‘female’ bared her tusks ever-so-slightly.

“Do not ac-cuse me of such tings, you fool. No-bady is doubting da skill of dose here; in-cluding yours. Yes, we are aware of your accohm-plish-ments in da Fjords; you’ve told us de story sev-er-al times ova! But we need to have our brains about us because _dis is not Ut-garde Keep! Dis is Naxxramas!_ “ Despite her struggles with the common tongue, her brooking-no-argument-bearing was coming through loud and clear, irking the opposing orc further. Mort was beginning to enjoy himself now.

“And why should it be any different-?!”

“Because, Grom’dar, in case it escaped your notice; it took over thirty of us to take down Noth! _Thirty!_ _For one man_!” the priest from before called out, standing close to the troll- ah, the source of the arcane burst from earlier, no doubt. In fact, Mort noted, two others were standing hear her too- a croaching male troll and a rather overbearing orc-woman silently blending into the background. Collectively they actually faced the group of their peers while the female troll took command. They were the ones Cersae was with from before, he realised with a start.

“These Agents-of-Arthas are not pushovers! How many here can say it would take thirty to down you? In all honesty?!” The orc made a movement of defiance before quelling it as soon as it was made. Indeed, Mort ruminated, it would inflate your ego to state such a thing, but in reality _, five_ would be more than sufficient to down that hot-headed son-of-Orgrimmar. The priest called out again.

“Do not underestimate anyone in here,” he looked directly to Grom’dar. “You are trying to lead us to a crushing slaughter while riding high on your arrogance and misplaced assurance of our automatic victories, but that will not work again, not in here. Let us keep flukes to a minimum and trying to rely on Fortune at bay, shall we?" Breathing heavily, but visibly deflating, Grom’dar stepped back, muttering undoubtedly several highly-offensive orcish curses under his breath. The Baron’s orcish was rusty but a handful of them said some highly unkind things with regards to the troll’s sex and ‘position in society’, at best translation, and some extremely unsavoury things about her outspoken priestly comrade.

Mort was irked further.

“Good, now dat dat has been dealt wit- who knows what about dis Heigan?” 

* * *

  There were three already dead, liquefied instantaneously from the –no, _four_ now. Blind _idiot_ , the troll should have contained his gag reflex. The stench was Undercity-worthy but they had to _keep moving._

To the right- Pause! Good- that’s as predicted, so there is a pattern... Right again! No! Stop you fools! That’s too far-!

The death count rose to six. Several were now in a near-panic, hyperventilating. The unfit amongst the group were becoming clear as they slowed. They were losing momentum- and morale. For all the Horde were – _move!_ _No! Stop here!-_ highly independent and spirited warriors, even an unusual situation like- _Run! Not so far! Shit, eight dead now!-_ this was wearing them down.

The handful of Forsaken in the group could certainly maintain running back and forth, waiting for the- _No! To the next section-! Oh in the name of the Dark Lady…eight and a half dead; her leg will need healed and quick!-_   _bastard_ ’s magic to fail him eventually, but the living meat-bags required stamina…that they clearly didn’t possess. 

Heigan wasn’t going to pause, someone had to get up there before they all perished in this _neverending, fucking cycle_. Mort hissed, or rather his armour did as the next spout caught the tail end of his jerkin while he slowed, lost in thought.   _Damn him to the nether! An opening, that’s all I’ll need._

Trekking across the room once more, he sifted in and out of the hulking bodies , veering towards the raised dais upon which the son-of-a-bitch stood making sure to pay proper attention to where his feet should and should not be placed. Few ran this close to the dais, realising the wider space aided them further back in their hasty retreat when they had been _physically forced_ from the platform now occupied by Heigan.

 _Heigan the Unclean_ , a fitting name for the monster currently lording over them. The Baron had long figured that the traps were mechanically activated, at some unknown signal, but now they were active, Heigan had no control over them directly until the cycle had finished- _if_ it finished. They had barely been in combat for a few minutes before the son-of-a-bitch unleashed this acidic and fluidic _hell_ upon them.

He had to run out of plague at some point- right?

Uttering several more vile curses, Mort edged closer, finding himself caught in a tight angle between spouts. He felt like a fool, a sheep being herded back and forth across this veritable quagmire of triggers and traps, one space open at any given burst. It seems that Heigan wanted to watch them dance to his merry tune as they died. One-by-one. And to Mort’s increasing temper and vexation, _it was fucking working._

Ten dead now. The steam hissed jeeringly at him again, declaring that it was coming for him. Only a matter of time…

 _Not today,_ Mort thought. _No, I do enough dancing to other tunes to fall in line with this bastard._

Holding his daggers tight, on the next round…just wait….NOW!

Lunging between spurts, the Forsaken leapt to the dais, unaffected by the bizarre aura the magic-users claimed to be emanating from the Scourge. His daggers hit home and the waltz halted abruptly.

Walden felt nothing. The dance ended and the participants stopped in their ridiculous bounding. The overture was finished, now it was time for the finale- and there would be no encore, he would make sure of it.

It's all it was, all it ever was. A dance.

His daggers flashed bloody in the dim light, the green hue diluting the crimson into a deadened rot, a ghostly rust now coating his blades.

Several couples, pairs, groups and soloists all in an intricate wheel dancing to the unheard tune.

_Life's merry little dancing tune._

His fellow raiders were beside him now on the dais, exhibiting their full might and fury on the Plague Master.

His cries went unheard above the jeers of Horde brethren- the few that lived anyway.

The fools were unaware of each deliberate, rehearsed step- falling into place exactly alongside everyone they should throughout their own personal dances.

No mistakes were made, but some footfalls had dire consequences- bumping into partners, tripping up an unassuming dancer, forcing them from the floor…

Several bodies singed and hissed as small bubbling bursts erupted from the cracks again, the skin melting and slewing from their degrading skeletons.

He heard it, the music…the Music of Life, composed by Fate and played out by Them- the Unassuming Figurants That Walked These Lands.

He had always heard it.

The song had been playing nonstop since his reawakening, tormenting his mind.

And over.

William watched as blood arced from his calculated movements.

The blood- it danced in the air, branching off, arcuate and dissipating in a long descent.

It was still there- playing in a repeated overplay in the back of his mind.

It had taken a few years but  the Baron had subtly realised that the music was not limited to him, or the Forsaken.

No- it had always been there, even when he breathed, just at the back of his mind.

Heigan wasn’t breathing now.

His corpse collapsed, a gargle his final notes to conclude the mismatched and poorly composed performance that was his Life-after-Death conclusion.

How fitting.

Walden wondered if his Final Death would end the same way.

All the notes were there, all the dance steps were lain out ahead of him, marked on his future path and try as he might, try as he might to avoid them, his feet always fell where Life told him to step.

One damned twist and turn at a time.

Sometimes he was left dizzy, reeling by the allegro of the waltz.

Other times he shook with impatience at the horribly slow pace at which he was to pander to.

Would everyone else hear the tune upon their death?

Or were they all so callously oblivious to the unknown conductor dictating the very rate upon which their lives where lived; who determined each rise and fall at the swish of a bone-white stick…

Sheathing his daggers, Baron Walden exerted his determined strength to drag the corpse onto the floor. Recognising signs of an incoming, final geyser, he made sure to position the body accordingly.

With a dark gleam he watched the deceased frame of Heigan meet its physical end at the hand of his own bastardised plague. The Father of Rot was no more, finally cleansed of his very existence on this mortal plane. Finding no solace in his revenge, but instead stark naked satisfaction of his demise, Walden toed the sludgy remains pooling at his feet.

Perhaps The Conductor passed the baton over sometimes, giving others a chance to play their own music. If that was the case, Mort decided idly, then he wasn’t handing the pale wand back over any time soon.

* * *

 “Good to see you in one piece.”  A familiar, deep voice drew Mort from his reverie and the Undead found himself laying sharp eyes upon none other than Ryndan Firesworn. He nodded in response, falling in front of the elf as the rest of his group parted ways to seek their own medical treatment.

“You too,” the Tirisfal Baron mumbled, “but perhaps you seem to have _just_ escaped in one piece,” he nodded to the sling strapping Ryndan’s right arm to his torso. A strained grimace flitted across his face as he regarded it.

“Indeed, had a…well, an accident, shall we say kindly and leave it at that.” He threw a half-smile to the Forsaken. “My arm has dislocated again.”

Mort raised his brow. “Does this mean you’re no longer fit for battle?”

“What? No! I just need to relocate it again.”

“Sounds easier said than done, you were nothing shy of agonised after relocating it last week,” The Baron reminded him. If arms could limp, then his certainly would have from the strain upon which it was forced to heal.

“It might be a little bit out of commission, but I’ll just wield my sword with one hand- it will be an interesting exercise.”

“You use a two-handed claymore, though.”

“I’ll be borrowing one of the one-handed longswords from one of the Crusaders- one that – that can’t use it anymore,” Ryndan said quietly, his green gaze falling upon the whimpering bodies scattered near and around them.

The two fell into silence and simultaneously turned to casually observe the surroundings. All around lay groaning men and women. Some had blood stains, others were just bleeding straight onto their blankets. Two or three were quiet- unconscious or dead, Mort was unsure, and uncaring. The healers who remained in the centre of Naxxramas were flitting about at an unholy speed, distributing bandages and bottles, disregarding the already-emptied ambulatory crates and barking orders left, right and centre to treat the new wave of wounded descending upon them from The Plague Quarter. The noise was wholesome and irritating.

“Your numbers are lacking,” Ryndan frowned, it finally dawning how few of them had returned.

“We lost a goodly number on our second encounter- _Heigan_.” The spittle from his mouth travelled some distance at the disgusted utterance of the cunt’s name. Thirteen had died overall, a further few injured and decommissioned due to which. By the time they escaped their designated section, over half of their initial group would not be continuing further.

“You downed _Heigan?_ I wasn’t even aware he was in Naxxramas! _”_

“And Noth- went down like a sack of bricks off of a bridge. But Heigan was ready for us, and the morons I was with were not ready for him. They were too slow,” he spat bitterly. “We barely scraped by on the last … _thing_. Who knows what the hell that was supposed to be- it was a _walking mushroom._ Luckily we had some with us who had a penchant for fire and lit that bloody plant up like a pyre during the Midsummer festival.” He eyed the female troll that had spoken up before they took down The Unclean. She was speaking in low tones to the male troll that had sided with her. He sat on the floor, head between his hands, shaking his ridiculously bright-pink hair as he muttered under his breath.

Trauma, clearly, though what of Mort didn’t know or care to know. He had been so enveloped in the downing of Heigan and ending of Plague production for the Scourge that all of his elation had been channelled into tearing down the Fungus beast.

“How long has it been since we entered?” Mort demanded, more than asked. He received a quick look from the paladin, but he answered anyway.

“I’m not terribly sure but the Central Group reckon we were gone for nearly two hours. We returned perhaps only twenty minutes prior to yourselves. We haven’t received any word from the Alliance Quarter yet, but Commander Ashwood sent two scouts to find out the state of them,” he reported tiredly, the pain of his injury no doubt wearing him down. A keen sense of invulnerability swept over him as Mort revelled in the fact that he no longer felt pain and was not to be burdened by such nuisances.

“What took out your arm then?” Ryndan shot him a dark glance before sighing.

“The last creature we faced…it was a _gigantic spider_. Her brood had been guarding the entire quarter. We weren’t surprised; it was titled The Arachnid Quarter for a reason, but I just thought it was for all the by-blows around. Turns out they had a brood-mother and By The Light she nearly ended us all,” he shuddered abruptly, the armour he still donning rattling in response. The right gauntlet, armguard and pauldron lay at his feet, his padding rolled up revealing a crumpled shirt-sleeve.

“She imprisoned some of us in webbing. Cocooning them … we were on a gigantic net of her design, Walden, completely on her terms,” the paladin described the vast room and the Forsaken couldn’t help but compare it to Heigan’s own chamber- entirely of his own design in wholly in his favour and yet they had overcome him- at Mort’s on intervention however. No one else had taken the initiative and that had pissed him off more than he could express. If he hadn’t had been there would they all have failed and died? Leaving someone else like The Crusade or the damned Alliance to clean up after their piss-poor effort?

His contempt for his fellows grew marginally. The bickering and fighting had been ongoing, even after Heigan’s downfall. The troll had taken point and _thank The Dark Lady_ for that, but even so there was dissension in poorly disguised whispers and mutters. Twice Mort had reeled on four such unhappy persons, kindly telling them to _shut their fucking mouths_ before he did it for them and to concentrate on the task at hand. He didn’t hold a misplaced sense of solidarity, rather their whining had ground his nerves to the point of making a show of unsheathing his beloved weapons from his belt in a deliberate threat. He guessed the venom in his expression was enough to get the point across. They had shut up until marching on the Mushroom-creature. In fact, he thought that three of them may have perished or become gravely wounded on that fight- _pity._

“Firesworn, how’s your arm holding up?” The short-haired night elf woman from the night he stole Cers away from them appeared, focussed entirely on her subordinate and pointedly ignoring the undead beside him. Bandages and rather odorous. poultices covered every visible inch of her, going down to beneath her dress-shirt, all armour divested for complete-body treatment it seemed. _She looked more ghoulish than I do_ , the Baron thought. Mort suppressed a snicker.

“It isn’t, Commander but this sling is doing a fine job of holding it up for me,” he half-grinned. “Any word from the Construct Quarter?” She shook her head.

“Negative, they- _ah!”_ She winced, flexing gingerly. “Negative. If the other quarters are anything like the size of ours, which we can assume they may be judging by the outward- _ah, dammit_!” she flinched again at some unseen wound.

“Commander-“

“It’s fine, Captain!”

“Lieutenant-Commander, sir.”

“What? Oh, of course. My apologies,” she sighed, drawing a hand over her face.

Walden watched this all with mild curiosity. He adopted a sickly-sweet tone. “You look like you’ve been attacked by a rather gruesome bug, kal’dorei. Pray tell, what happened to thee?”

“ _Get to hell,_ undead.”

“No need to be so harsh! I thought I may offer my services is all, but if I’m not wanted…” he trailed off, feigning hurt.

Ryndan leaned over and placed an hand on her arm, “Sir, it may not hurt for him to look. Walden is rather… _versed,_ in a wide variety of poisons and we still don’t know exactly what they attacked you with. These pus-boils may need different treatment than-“

“No, the healers have done a fine job treating this, I just need to let it heal and cool. I functioned perfectly well and despite your appreciated concern, I will continue to go on until I cannot physically lift a finger. Now-“

“They’re back!”

“You made it!”

Several cries echoed around and it took less than a moment to notice the clambering group of limping figures exiting one of the tunnels. A few looked relieved, others horrified and the rest being carried on the backs or shoulders of their kinsmen.

The leaders sought each other out swiftly, Mort decided to eavesdrop not-so-surreptitiously as the small party gathered.

“Commander Dawnbringer, a relief to know you have succeeded also,” the night elf spoke. ‘Dawnbringer’ covered up his surprise well at her physical appearance but expressed the same sentiments regardless, much to Mort’s disgust. Small talk, what use was it really?

“Indeed, Commander Ashwood, we are quite fortunate to have survived. What are the numbers?” he glanced overhead, peering at the increasing hospital. Collectively, the group moved to the Plague Quarter entrance. Mort followed. He noticed Ryndan throwing the Baron a reproachful look, but Mort smirked in response. He wanted to listen in, and why shouldn’t he? Settling himself against a wall, he folded his arms to let the plot unfold.

“Argent numbers are like so- twelve are dead, and a further nine are receiving treatment. I estimate that perhaps five of those at least won’t be able to continue due to the extent of their wounds, but we shall know soon dependant on our physicians. Overall, we have at least seventeen at the immediate ready at last count, myself included.” Ashwood reported neutrally. Mort doubted she was wholly unaffected by the losses, but even he could see her steely soldier soul powering onwards.

“And how many battle-healers do you still have?” The human paladin- judging by his red and yellow battle-dress- asked. Ryndan and Ashwood shared a look.

“Seven, perhaps? Maybe six? I think we lost three overall and Harrison is unconscious at the moment, unless he’s been revived?” Ryndan speculated.

“Not to my knowledge he hasn’t- ah, Lieutenant-Commander McGreaves! Thank you for joining us- do you know if Healer Harrison has awakened?” she asked of a newcomer- a dwarf with a dour looking expression and a bloody smock.

‘McGreaves’ shook his head. “Nay, Commander, he’s got some sorta internal injury that we just cannae treat effectively here, he’s bein’ forwarded tae Dalaran at the earliest convenience.”

“I see, thank you. What of the injured, what is the Crusader’s status alone?”

“Er, lemmee see. About four o’ them willnae be going onward fae definite, that much I do ken, but I’ve been treatin’ Horde since they arrived so I’m no sure on all o’ them. Dae ye want me tae go ‘n’ check, Sir?”

“Please, we need to know exact figures. Thank you Lieutenant-Commander.”

Mort, and everyone else present, had watched the Argent leaders interact silently. He could see the admiration in Dawnbringer’s eyes at their easy rapport. The Baron’s own gaze followed the dwarf back up to the raised dais, observing him flit between bodies, inquiring after their health from nearby other healers.

Overall the din seemed to have calmed down as treatment- or death- was delivered. Whimpering and moaning was still there, just less prominent now, thank the Dark Lady. It had been grating on his nerves.

Dawnbringer spoke again. “Hopefully, within the hour we shall know our own group’s status. They all fought valiantly, though I fear four encounters has crippled them and their spirits.”

“Four?!” Ryndan cried, voicing the look of dismay on Ashwood’s face and Mort’s own minor confusion. Both of their quarters had only possessed three major targets.

“Aye- why, how many did you finish?”

“Three here. Walden?” Looking up at his name, he found himself on the receiving end of three pairs of eyes.

“Aye, three here also,” a fourth voice spoke in his stead, earning the owner a hooded look of contempt from the Baron. It was the sin’dorei priest.

“Prelate Dawnstrider, join us, please.” The man entered the small crowd, his glaringly bright blond hair gathered in a long tail down his back. Now he could see why it had taken him so long to place; the hairstyle was vastly different from his initial sightings of the priest and begrudgingly, the Baron had to admit to being thrown off by it.

“We’ve lost more than I’d care to admit. Sadly, several have already passed from the Horde’s group upon their arrival to the centre, leaving us with sixteen- and three of those need further treatment in Dalaran. As a healing practitioner, I would state that thirteen are physically able to venture further.”

“And how many healers?”

“Four, myself included. Two druids, one shaman and myself,” Dawnstrider replied immediately, his wiry chest puffing out in readiness and perhaps defence?

“Sir! I’ve got the tallies- there’re six o’ oors no able tae continue, Sir, fae the Dawn –er Crusade, sorry,” The dwarf rejoined them, panting from his rapid excursion around the hospital.

“So, what, that’s ..seventeen plus three- twenty Crusaders at your disposal, and thirteen Horde combatants. So far we’re totalling thirty-three. Coupled with what the Expeditionary Forces can provide, the last quarter won’t know what to expect!” Ryndan proclaimed, though prematurely.

An offensive drawl spoke over the group, the physical embodiment of it sauntering towards them in the shape of one kaldorei death knight. “Oh, I wouldn’t count on that, Firesworn.”

“What? What do you mean, Darksworn?” Ashwood commanded sharply, earning even Mort’s interest in the matter.

“This is the Military Quarter, home to some of the most elite of novice knights,” he smirked, twisting his face as he did so turning even the Baron’s stomach. “Razuvious trains his pride and joy here, contorting and damaging every initiate who passes through. Sometimes they even survive to venture further in the ranks. Myself? I was assigned to the Citadel before lumbering over to Acherus…”

_Elite of novice knights…_

Silence met his soliloquy.

Ryndan was first to speak, reluctantly, judging by the way his teeth were grinding. “Darksworn, are you stating that you know exactly what lies beyond that unholy entrance?” each word was stated with extreme care and caution, the enunciation exaggerated due to which, Mort noticed. And that was bad, in Ryndan’s case- it was a tell of the rising temper he rarely possessed.

“Well, yes, of course. Oh come now, don’t look so surprised! I was among the Master’s most elite of ranks! Of course I was privy to the inhabitants of his favoured Necropolis- it _was_ stationed in Icecrown after all before floating on down here for you fine people…”

“And the other quarters- were you aware of the _inhabitants_ resided there also?”

The night elf looked thoughtful for a moment. “Yes- there was Anub’Rekhan, Faerlina and Maexxna in our quarter- I’d heard stories about the Broodmother but that was _frightfully_ inaccurate. To see her up close- _wow_ , _what a sight!”_

“Then why the _HELL_ DID YOU NOT INFORM US BEFORE HAND?!”

The knight actually had the audacity to shrug at his superior, earning immediate liking and favour from Mort for his sheer effrontery and gall. “Because nobody asked me-“ Mort doubted anyone witnessing the exchange was surprised at the fist that abruptly ended that sentence. A fairly decent left-hook from a _very_ pissed-off looking Firesworn sent the knight tumbling.

“You absolute _bastard_ \- do you know how many died due to _our ignorance?! When you had the information all along?!”_

Dawnbringer and Dawnstrider both hooked their arms around Ryndan to restrain him, earning the startled looks of several people nearby.

“Firesworn get a hold of yourself!” Ashwood hissed, entering his personal space. Coolly, the Baron watched on; his mood having lifted with recent amusement and the antics unfolding before him.  Still seething, Ryndan stopped struggling, probably at the protests of his injured arm, but didn’t remove his gaze from the death knight. In fact, Terowin appeared to be emitting just as much contempt, if not more, in Mort’s opinion towards the Crusader. Curious…

“Darksworn, I swear by the swords I wield that if I ever hear of this kind of blatant, _perjurious_ behaviour again then I will _personally_ remove that head from those shoulders and I will not be kind about it,” Ashwood stated quietly, now turning to him. Mort could very well believe her to be a fair match for him, should occasion arrive, despite her current physical state of being. He would pay handsomely to see that particular skirmish. “Now,” she continued, “tell us every single _detail_ you know about the quarter we’re about to enter.”

The conversation turned to tactical discussion as Darksworn spilled what he knew- though whether it was all of his knowledge or if it were even true, Mort remained unconvinced. He understood the knight’s logic; he was immediately dismissed, or rather not even considered, simply because of what he was, to have any valuable information when in reality it serves the Crusade right for being so unjustly bias, and now they have paid the price for their arrogance…

“That was more dramatic that I anticipated. I certainly hope that there is no more of that to come our way.” The priest had made his way to Mort, inviting himself unto conversation with the Baron, leaving the Commanders to their planning. “The next venture sounds intriguing to say the least, and to think of how it could have been worse!”

“Worse?” Mort inquired curiously, not entirely sure how…

“Well, we could have had the innumerable Scourge from the mausoleum down below on our backs too..." Dawnstrider pointed out.

Mort jumped on it quick as his wit would allow; “Well, you know what they say about crypts."

A clueless look told him that he, in fact, didn't know.

"Everyone's _dying_ to get in."

* * *

  _She’s here. Alive. In Naxxramas. She’s alive. Here. In Naxxramas._

Shock disallowed him to move from the spot where he stood.

_She’s alive._

The music, it was playing in the forefront again.

_Alive._

He stared down at the broken body. Joints clearly out of place, dislocated and stretched out of place. Four runed blades penetrated her naked body, sticking out at odd angles from the husk of a girl.

Her eyes were shut. Her ribs threatened to tear her skin with their sharpness. The pale hair that adorned her translucent skull was frail and wiry.

_She’s alive._

The Military Quarter housed the Death Knight contingents, as Darksworn had said. But they also contained the prisoners.

She hadn’t been accepted by them

_She’s alive._

The blood was leaking in small rivulets across her limpid skin. The crimson contrasted in a way he had never seen before, reflecting harshly off her as another pulse forced more from her corpse.

No one else had noticed yet. They were taking care of insurgents. But he had seen her. Clear as a phantom, chained in a straw-ridden pen.

 Alive.

_Shit._


	40. The Phantom

The entrance into The Military Wing of Naxxramas was dank and sallow, stale air crawling throughout the passages and antechambers with a dusty feel to the lungs.

It was also heavily guarded.

His sword slick and sticky with spilled blood already, Ryndan caught his breath to survey the damage. Broken corpses already lay scattered- the majority adorning Scourge colouring and armour. A small handful of moaning bodies let him know that at least some of his own fellows yet lived, despite their injuries in the fray.

They had been met with a fierce resistance after venturing forth into the Wing. Darksworn's tales of the military prowess of the wing's inhabitants was accurate-  _too_  accurate for comfort. 'Elite' was definitely the word for the opponents that fell to their blades and spells. Now no longer only with his own sworn brethren, Ryndan extended his watchful eyes over Horde volunteers and Alliance Expeditionary militia. The latter were easily identifiable; their loud blue tabards a catching flash wherever he turned. The Horde were more easily recognised by their sheer racial differences. Whereas the Crusaders and militia equipped their respective colours, the Horde were less pronounced in their factionary markings.

Instead the handful of Tauren that had survived until now towered over the rest by anywhere from a foot to several feet. Similarly, the few trolls could also be pinpointed with their bright skin and hair, occasionally dominating their opponents with greater heights and strength. The orcs and Forsaken were less easy to spy- the undead blending in with their surroundings. With small frames and little armour they became lost in the sea of bodies clashing. Orcs, their armour dark and dulled also suffered from camouflaging. On three occasions in the last ten minutes or so had Ryndan been forced to stay a sword strike when his mind evaluated that the figure before him did not possess glowing blue eyes. He cursed their outfitting and made a mental note to urge them to wear bright red next time. He'd even make ribbons himself for each of them if it meant avoiding near-deaths by his hands due to mistaken identity. Before entering the quarter, they had re-kitted a few of the survivors from the other quarters with weaponry and armour anew- though mainly their Horde allies. It was during this replenishing of blades and blunts did Ryndan note the state of some of the armour of the Horde representatives.

Chainmail shirts were decorated with rust-coloured spots, seeping through very clearly to mark undershirts and trousers. Gambeson and paddings held loose and broken stitching and had lost so much stuffing as to be hardly called 'padding' anymore. Occasionally, where a piece of armour had failed them, they were bare and left open to injuries and marks. No bracers that the Crusade could substitute would wrap around an orcish arm. No pair of boots would fit a trollish foot, nor helmet a tauren skull. Instead they were content with wrappings and bandages for the meanwhile, or nothing altogether citing that they would purchase their own in due course. When questioned onto why no funding was not allocated to help dress the Horde volunteers for battle from their leaders, they simply replied that all money and valuable goods were shipped to aid the Wrathgate campaign (1). Dryly, Ryndan felt a moment of gratitude for being in the Crusade, where no body went unclothed or left to chill, no mouth left unfed or watered. The moment passed fleetingly when he realised that the Crusade had in fact left the current contingent to fend for themselves; claiming that the Wrathgate was more important than backing their own.

With a bitter taste in his mouth, Ryndan vowed to withhold judgement on such a decision until after Naxxramas.

If there was an after.

The first minor army of the quarter fell but not without sacrifice. Already three more of theirs were lost to the carrion of Naxxramas, several people lifting and dragging the fallen near to the entrance. Under command in hope of finding orders or information on what to anticipate immediately did they ransack the slain death knights.

They were not easy to kill; but as they were only novice knights, not yet in the full prime and height of the Unholy powers, they did not yet possess the unnatural healing exhibited by their seniors in the profession. Darksworn had taken a rather bizarre glee in cutting them down at a rate of twice anyone else in the vicinity. Ryndan found it disturbing but said nothing. A dead death knight was a dead death knight, regardless of how their demise came about, or so he told himself.

Despite his best efforts to the contrary, he kept a weather eye out for a flash of bright white hair.

After a few passed words between the leaders and confirmation of no helpful information found, they regrouped. Ryndan realised they stood atop a balcony, overlooking a large open space.  _Ideal for sparring_ , he surmised. A quick scan revealed a few knights on horseback, others milling – with runeblades, of course- and towards the back a section dedicated to pens, by the look of it. Straw and damp hay poked out from some of them.

Cautiously and skilfully, they made their way down the only path available to them- a ramp leading the the very area they stood atop of only minutes previous. Once again they were met with brute force. These soldiers were not just novices; unlike those practicing on target dummies upstairs now lying dead. No, these were trained combatants who had seen some warfare already. Disabling the horses proved effective to force their dismount and soon they were overwhelmed with the force of forty. Ryndan suffered yet another blow to his once-again-relocated right arm and drew blood from his inner cheek as he tried to not cry out in agony. With dedicated militarism did the Crusade lead the forefront of the charge onto other knights now making their way to them. The Militia and Horde brought up the rear, fending off any attempted to sneak around.

By the end of it, all of their foes had fallen. Four more of their own were unable to continue onwards; and one was dead.

Catching his breath, the paladin surveyed the area. Brickwork; leaking and damp. The cold of Northrend must seep through even this mighty fortress and infect the stonework. He was right, there were pens; though why undead steeds were in need of hay and bedding, he was unsure. Upon closer inspection however, the pens…appeared to be  _occupied._

Skeletons…and decomposed bodies hung from chains. They weren't for the horses; but for  _prisoners._  The nearest one- a body that had more bone that flesh showing- wore a gruesome looking device around its neck. Rusted tips pointed inwards, and judging by the depth of the stains on the points; it wasn't for decoration. He turned on the spot; not all pens held occupants. Some were empty of anything, others only hay. By the time he finished evaluating the round of 'cells', he drew attention to the last of them. A group of five or six stood around one, pointing. Frowning, he sheathed his sword and strode forward to see what differed this particular cell from all the others-

It was _her._

Cadaverous and wasted did she lay in Walden's arms. A rough blanket covered her slightly, but emaciated arms escaped, still attached to iron chains being hacked at with a sharp axe by- by  _Bartheleus._ Sparks flew where weapon-met-metal but Ryndan gave no thought to his presence from the central medical bay as he studied the haggard body before him. Someone was fussing over her, whispering harshly and shaking his head to Walden as hands passed over her body beneath the blanket, a clear glowing visible. He realised Prelate Dawnstrider was attending her.

Betrayal. Hurt. Indifference. Uncaring. Anger.

He had expected to feel all of this if they were to ever meet again- something he would never admit to hoping for. She had lied to him. She had left the Crusade to halt the plague, but in fact she had aided it; furthered it and even perfected it. He knew this from his missions at Westguard all those weeks back; before they had been called away to Wintergarde. She had betrayed them- Walden had said so. She came here voluntarily to become a Death Knight Proper- to fight against the Northrend resistance, to fight against the Horde, Alliance and Crusade… to fight against  _him_.

And yet here she lay, broken and tortured. Her hair viscid with dried blood; cuts and wounds evident by the alarmingly growing blood pools percolating through her rough blanket. Three- no,  _four_  Runed-blades, their symbols still pulsing maliciously, lay aside her, freshly free from her body no doubt. She was so frail-seeming that a simple gust of air was in danger of being spirited away into nothingness. A pale hand gently forced each eyelid open- dilated, but not blue. They were still the milky white he remembered them to be…

A loud clang announced her own freedom from the walls from whence she was chained, but the manacles remained firm on her thin, purpling wrists and ankles.

"It's no good, I cannot stem the flow for long, she needs emergency aide that I cannot provide," Prelate Dawnstrider announced, looking to Walden. Gravely, he nodded and made to move. "I will take her to Dalaran and relay my instructions for her. Her biology is strange to me, but I think I know someone in the city medical corps that can help. They are already expecting our wounded, so they should receive her immediately. Have hope." The elf stood and lifted Cersae from Walden with the barest of effort, her bindings looking to weigh more combined than her own.

"I should go with her-" Walden started.

"No." The word left his mouth before he had even registered the Baron's request. Ryndan received a look of shock- something the Forsaken had never expressed in his presence before.

"You saw her?" Walden alternated between nervously watching him and watching Dawnstrider carry the girl away, Bartheleus in close quarters behind him, the axe still in his hand. "Dan, I really think I should be present when she wakes-"

"We press on, you cannot be spared; your combat expertise is too valuable," and with that the Lieutenant-Commander turned on his heel and called for a regathering. He ignored the curious look his superior gave him as he passed her, and ignored the churning pit in his stomach that jumped.

Betrayal…hurt…Indifference…Uncaring…Anger…

He had expected to feel all of this if they were to ever meet again- so why did his heart beat faster instead on realising that she was, in fact, alive? Why did a seed of dread sow in the dark corners of his mind, growing into thoughts of 'what if she doesn't survive?'

Rearming himself, he instead focussed on the sound of the blade leaving its scabbard. The smell of his own familiar scent of mixed metal and sweat. The blood pumping in his ears and the hard breathing of his comrades. According to Terowin, the Knight's own Instructor was residing here currently and was overdue for a downfall.

There was blood to be spilled; and it would not be his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) "Funding the War Effort"- http://wotlk.wowhead.com/quest=12303


	41. The Shadows Forming

Time held little meaning during their annihilation of all assailants within the Dread Necropolis. Whether it was now night or if it had already passed into day again was unknown and the visitors' stay there was anywhere between a breath and infinity. There were no apertures, only false light sources to guide them. The military wing dimmed with each antechamber passed and the Lieutenant-Commander of the Argent Crusade was growing restless.

Unconsciously rotating his aching shoulder, he pressed forward at a gruelling pace, hilt held tight in his hand and the blood swelling in his veins and singing in his ears. Impatience gnawed at him to  _get out._  The pressing weight of the fortress forced its ungainly presence on them all and only the brief surges of adrenaline from each skirmish and fight kept him from crumbling beneath it. Ignoring the blatant desire for a breath of fresh air, instead of inhaling the dust and grime coating the bowels and recesses of Naxxramas, he pushed his soldiers hard, entering deeper into the Military Wing. Their overall pace had slowed dramatically since their arrival into the floating fortress. No one person had escaped to this point without injury and their time- and numbers- suffered for it. Anywhere from fresh grazes to broken bones filtered amongst the ranks at the Lieutenant-Commander's back. Ryndan's own wounds were expected bruises, no doubt soon-to-form after suffering so many blows at the hands of the creatures dwelling in the Unholy place. Even if he didn't admit it, he had made more than a few blind mistakes in the last half hour than in his entire time in the damnable place. Though he tried to ignore it, drawing breath was becoming a small, but demanding, burden. He flexed his throbbing shoulder once more, the already-damaged joint having been exposed to dire brutish force at their last encounter.

Razuvious had fallen- and not without cost. Their numbers were growing shorter- shorter than he'd like at this point. Two of the dead belonged to the Crusade; something of which he was selfishly and ashamedly grateful for compared to the losses suffered by the Expeditionary Force and Horde. Instead of dwelling on the guilt caused by this, he channelled it into fury; his mood souring as each minute passed and each corridor they fought through. With a renewed anger did he slaughter the knights in his pathway, allowing the blackening feeling to funnel into his sword. They were nearly clear- three wings had already fallen under their might and retribution, they just had to finish in here and then they were free…

Open sky, cold water beckoned Ryndan once more. He tried not to think about the white snow.

* * *

"I cannot tell of her condition and it frustrates me," the sin'dorei muttered. Bart threw him a sidelong glance but said nothing. The frail shape being carried in the priest's arms bounced and nodded with each step. Their time taken to traverse to the Wing-exit took a little longer than they liked, the blood elf taking swift but cautious steps in the wake of her obvious critical state. Bart, carrying a blazing torch in one hand and a short-sword in the other, kept pace with the man, wordlessly volunteering his presence for protection in case there was anyone daring to stand in their way back. He didn't want to think the worst, but if Cersae was dead, then he needed to see it for himself. Their time in each other's company may have been brief, but he was fond of the girl- and Luciya would want to know first-hand if anything had happened to her friend.

He prayed silently to Elune, knowing that his absent attention from Her Holiness in the past few years was something he shouldn't focus on right now and just hoped that his goddess was in a forgiving mood and willing to overlook his lack of religious devotion. Just this once.

Steps abstractedly gained speed, the taller of the elves gaining some distance, holding his torch aloft. The ground was littered with the dead, and had they not been harried, Bart would have taken the time to loot and strip them of any valuables, but his concern was growing too great. Shortly the central, provisional hospital came into sight and the priest sighed with exertion and relief. They settled the body- no,  _Cersae_ \- onto a rough mat and the blood elf unabashedly threw the crude blanket covering her naked form from her. Kneeling, with keen eyes and rolled sleeves, he started to work: his glowing, pale hands skirting around her violated form. Bart knelt quietly beside the man, candidly watching on out of dread and wanting to be of use. A flat-faced dwarf came forward, offering aid and an overly-long-and-nosey glance to Cersae, but the priest instead barked for her to contact a mage to transport the girl to Dalaran-  _immediately_. With a small satisfaction did Bart watch her scurry away.

"Major internal bleeding…broken ribs…wrists- dislocated? I am unsure…" the priest muttered again and Bart found himself watching the man intently as he worked. Green eyes remained focussed and unblinking, drinking in every detail of the scarred body between them.

"A dislocated wrist would cause grave swelling- and in a thin arm as hers, the bones would protrude most painfully at an angle," Bart found himself reciting. He was rewarded with a momentary look of awe and a nod of agreement from the priest.

"I think you are correct, Master Kaldorei. I would warrant instead that her shoulders are dislocated from her metal bondage and had they tightened further then her wrists and elbows would have been at risk." His examination continued, the man trying to halt the bleeding from the small slits in her abdomen. "Damn things won't heal! Curse this Forsaken anatomy!" Distractedly he told Bart to hold a compress over her wounds while he continued on. Soon he straightened, sighing frustratingly. "Stupid girl, why did she run away?" Drawing the blanket partially back over her, he ran his hair through dishevelled blond hair, looking worryingly down at their ward.

"Run away? From where?"

He looked at Bart again, this time finally realising that someone was actually with him. "From me. She and I have been companions- of sorts- for the last several weeks. She arrived at New Agamand shortly after my guild-mates and I did and we were thrown together in a matter of circumstance. I recently discovered something that she was trying desperately to hide." Another glance of concern fell upon her. "I just wanted to help- why did she resist me so?"

A cold feeling swept through Bart. " So you know her?"

"Yes, I do. Her name is-"

"Cersae."

This time, the sharp look was of intrigue and wariness. "It appears we need to talk, Master Kaldorei, but I fear now is not this time." A gruesome scream curdled its ways from the very chambers they had not long left, and all in the vicinity halted in their work to watch the Wing Entrance. Blood had drained from more than one face, and glancing round, Bart realised the absence of many of the sick and dying. They must have been transported to Dalaran or back to Winterguarde in his sojourn with the advance group. Restlessness had worn him down, tending to the wounded and he had found his way into the group venturing forward, but he found a dire irony to find himself back here.

A small moan drew his attention and two heads whipped to look down at the pale girl. Her chest fluttered with movement and more blood quivered its way weakly out from her body. Her eyes remained unopened, however.

"She lives!" he cried.

"Only just- but  _why_? She's breathing- even if only just- but her lungs are trying to draw air. The presence of blood itself baffles me- just what  _is_  she?"

Just this once, in their short acquaintance did Bart feel the need to hold his tongue. Somehow, telling him that she was a deserter from Arthas' own ranks didn't seem to be the thing to do at the time. A small, feminine voice in the back of his mind whispered that it's best to let her reveal her own secrets. It was sometime later that Bart realised the implications of the priest's words about her biology.

Bart diverted the subject instead, "where is that mage? Surely there's one available?" Sure enough, the priest swivelled his head in search of the aide he had sought after. Shortly a balding, fat man in wrinkled and bloodied robes jogged towards them, panting hard.

"I hear you- need a….p-portal?"

"Please, Master Mage, it is of the utmost urgency." The priest made to pick Cersae up once more, but Bart laid a hand on his bared arm.

"I can take her, you're needed here. I've seen your work- you will most certainly be needed. Just direct me to where I need to take her."

A long look passed between the two men. A stirring Bart hadn't felt in a long time awoke from deep within and unsettled him greatly. A sharp intake of breath reached his ears but he was uncertain as to who made it. The spell was broken and the priest detailed the whereabouts of the medical centre concisely. Nodding mutely, Bart listened to each word intently, gently lifting the broken girl in his arms. With one last glance to the flushed priest, Bart followed the mage, shaking his head free and only concentrating on Cersae.

He felt the intensity of the gaze on his back even after he had stepped through the shimmering portal.

* * *

Some vomited, others shook violently with sobs and a couple even fainted. Ryndan refused to think about it, instead seeking solace in stern tactical talks with Commander Ashwood. The large chamber they had just exited seemed to be the epitome of the training grounds in the fortress and the reason for its duality by way of a ceiling-tall metal grating became clear too quickly.

No, he couldn't think about it. They were illusions, hallucinations and nothing more.

Spirits are  _not_  real, he told himself once more.

Merely tricks of a clever magician, he had told his troops. The blue gho- no, the  _images_  were false. They had to be- if only he could convince the group so they could press forward. Childishly, perhaps, did he ignore his own scepticism in the matter and concentrated on loosing the leather strap on his right pauldron- the shoulder was causing a great deal of discomfort now.

Ashwood's deft, violet fingers worked their way to overtake his clumsy faultering.

"The superstitious of the lot are praying rather feverously- and not just the Crusaders, some members of the Horde and Alliance are reciting hymns and rituals over their own to not allow the ghosts to harm them," she reported, finally working the buckle loose. With a sigh of satisfaction did Ryndan free the shoulder from the bulky weight plaguing him. He let her comment about the 'ghosts' pass, simply concentrating on the death of one 'Gothik the Harvester' as named by a smug-looking Terowin Darksworn. Again, as the death knight had looked down upon the fallen foe did Ryndan witness a satisfaction, a grotesque triumph that could only be expressed between opponents with a personal history.

He didn't want to know, and so he didn't ask.

"We can give them a short break to recuperate, but I don't want to dawdle too long," he spoke through gritted teeth, gingerly pressing his shoulder. "We're so close now- I cannot have them losing morale so soon to the end. We cannot have much more to cover in this sector." He raised his eyes to Ashwood, but her fathomless eyes were turned to the shaken men and women. Whether it was the dim light or not, but underneath her now mostly excreted poultices, but there was a pale, almost pallid quality about her face.

She remained silent for a while, simply watching. When she finally spoke, Ryndan started. "You are correct, I agree with your judgement- but they are on their last legs, I think. Physical wounds can be healed with speed and skill, bandages and thread, the pain momentary and scars minimal. I have seen soldiers drag themselves into battle with broken swords and limbs, willing to use their teeth, head, fingers- anything to keep on going. Pain is temporary and limited with one's strength of will. But injury of the mind? That is much more dangerous to press on with. We must tread lightly- they have all received a shock and the best we can do is distract them. Whether those apparitions were real or not- they will  _think_  that they were real and now forever live in the shadow of death." She directed her gaze on him firmly. "You can declare and state that they were false illusions until you're blue in the face- but once that lingering doubt had nestled…" she trailed off, not needed to elaborate further.

Sprains, scars, blood, broken bones and blows were all things Ryndan was accustomed to dealing with out on the field. He could aid a wounded man, he could heal an injured woman…it was simple to him for the most part and he went unaffected for as long as he could remember. But scarring of thought? No, he had next to no experience with helping anyone suffering that. He had his own demons to deal with, much less anyone else's.

Begrudgingly did he accept her reasoning for waiting a little longer, but he didn't like it. Not at all. Fatigue was settling in, and so close in enemy quarters, that was extremely dangerous.

* * *

The lack of resistance beguiled them, setting many on edge. After wading so deep into Naxxramas, after drowning out blade-clash, cries of agony and warcries of defiance to be forced to strain ears for any hint of an encroaching patrol or ambush- it frightened them.

Faint murmurs echoed through the small column, the few able to continue- willing to continue, voicing their perturbed nerves.

Ryndan tread lightly, keeping behind Ashwood, Dawnbringer and a female troll named Balija- the three representative leaders paving the way as a sign of solidarity and courage. Ryndan stood beside a heavily armoured Expeditionary dwarf on one side, and an agitated and jittery male troll. He couldn't appear to keep still, breathing heavily and fumbling with his long robe. From underneath a very tight-looking helmet he could see whispers of rather shockingly-pink hair.

As second-in-commands, they were to aid in keeping the column in line. With a number too laughable to really be called a column, this was an easy task. The soldiers and healers had proven themselves this day, beyond any reckoning of a doubt, and he made a note to tell them all this once they were free.

Chattering chain-mail distracted him once more, and with a comforting hand and word did he try to calm the anxious shaman beside him. His strange wooden idols on his back clattered with each shiver, and the noise however small, seemed impossibly loud in the barren chamber they passed through. A quick glance back told him more than he needed to know about the effect of the accidental percussion had on the group.

"You must control yourself- people look to our backs for strength, we cannot be seen to look scared like children," he whispered, perhaps a bit more harsh than he intended.

"I-I know, I am just so …so terri-fied, mon! I should neva hav com here, dis is a bad, baaaad place." The response shocked Ryndan for reasons he wasn't quite sure, but the troll nevertheless made an effort to stand taller and control his wooden artefacts. Dumbly, the Lieutenant-Commander nodded his approval at the change and received a nervous wink in return.

Their careful expedition carried on further, the tension growing with each step-

"Halt invaders! Cease this foolish venture at once! Turn away while you still can!"

As a unit, they froze, a distinct voice echoing from beyond.

A chilling woman's voice answered,"Come, Zeliek, do not drive them out. Not until we've had our fun!" Commander Dawnbringer fell to his knees, caught at the elbows by the two other leaders flanking him.

"Enough prattling. Let them come. We shall grind their bones to dust."

"I do hope they stay long enough for me to... introduce myself."

"Perhaps they will come to their senses... and run away as fast as they can."

"I've heard enough a' yer snivelin'! Shut your flytrap before I shut it for ye'!"

"Conserve your anger. Harness your rage. You will all have outlets for your frustrations soon enough."

His blood had run cold. Their voices- such malice, such deadly  _intent_. A chill ran through him, whimpering and terrified panics started behind him. He turned to deal with it just as Commander Eligor Dawnbringer began to pray rapidly.

Leaving him the capable hands of Ashwood and the troll, he tried to calm the rabble in its alarm. He noticed Prelate Dawnstrider- recently returned from dealing with...her... sifting in and out of the ranks also attempting to placate fear. He hadn't spoken with the elf and was too scared to ask. Instead, Ryndan pulled a serious-looking Darksworn to the side.

"What's this about, Darksworn? You made no mention of these- whoever they are!" he hissed.

Terowin regarded him coolly. "I made no mention because I had thought them to be disbanded."

"Who?!"

"The Horsemen- well, three men and one woman, technically." Ryndan threw the knight a venomous look. With a dramatic humph, Terowin explained. "The Four Horsemen, of Elite ranks to Arthas himself- I wasn't that high, put it that way. Actually, the traitor Morgraine was among the Four. Which is why I thought with his betrayal that the other three would be busy making up their losses elsewhere." He frowned, his ashen face taking on a dark expression. "I don't know who this fourth one is- this  _Zeliek._  I was not made aware of any new additions to the Upper Ranks," he spat, clearly angered by this revelation.

"He was a paladin." Both men regarded Commander's Ashwood's approach. She threw a grim look over her shoulder to the still-praying Dawnbringer. "Apparently he was amongst the first assault on Naxxramas two years ago. He was lost in the confusion of the slaughter and was presumed dead. A brave man, I'm told.  _Extremely_  devout in his religious studies."

"A paladin? In the upper ranks?" Terowin laughed crudely, his head thrown back and armour creaking in unison. "My, my. The Lich King has more of a sense of humour than I ever imagined!"

"This is no laughing matter, Death Knight! Pull yourself together!" Ashwood berated under her breath, her own expression a match for Ryndan's.

"A paladin…. Forced into Unholy servitude? Irony at its finest. This- this is hilarious. I wonder how his Status of Undeath battled with his religious viewpoints," there was a nasty gleam in Terowin's eye and for a brief, minute moment, Ryndan's hand twitched unchecked over his hilt. "Well, let us go forth then, Crusaders. I have a score to settle with Rivendare and I would so hate to disappoint him." The undead night elf sauntered away, caressing his two-handed axe fondly.

"That is one disturbed man," Ashwood muttered. Ryndan mutely nodded his agreement, however a small niggle in his mind caught his attention.

"Did he say 'Rivendare'? Of Stratholme infamy?"

* * *

A/N- Naxxramas is taking faaar longer than I expected it to. Ah well, you know how it all goes- we're nearly at the end ...  
Also, a large thank you to anyone who's read this far and has liked/favourited it etc (I'm still not sure how this all works on Ao3)


	42. The Dread End

The Baron William Walden was not by any means an impatient man. He had harboured grudges that took years of careful planning to exact revenge upon, for example, with several still in the works. He had concealed many a-motives and done a great deal many things that required displeasing actions in order to achieve a long-term goal. His funds grew extensive with careful preening and investment and he held a goodly number of individuals in his debt thanks to various… dealings. Yes, his ledger was very full, indeed.

Some of these debtors owed money, and he collected when it was required- only half the time did those meetings end bloodily and half again fatally, at least for one party. Others owed favours, life-debts or power-plays to be exploited whenever the Undead wanted. These kind of business  _relations_  required the Baron to evaluate the worth of the other participant, as it would first require him to take care of things for them…anything ranging from bribery and blackmail to assault and assassination, before holding the favour-in-future as adequate payment. From then on out, Walden knew the location and goings-on of all who owed him so as need be he could track them down at a moment's notice, and so they don't slip away with unpaid obligations.

He was fair with these black contracts. His actions denoted just exactly what he could ask of the other party. A bribe was good for a free pass into high-ranking establishments. Blackmail got him into safes and vaults which would normally be closed. Assault allowed him a Safety House in any given town or city and assassination granted all of the above with the added benefit of an alternative escape route should he require one. Information was generally traded for information- stocks, political plans, trade and general gossip. He liked dealing in information the most, as it sold rather well to many, many interested people. He didn't ever think of himself as a sellsword…more of a Specialised Criminal Entrepreneur. He could move freely in about three-quarters of both major continents- cities and major capitals included- using this network he had built up and he was slowly building the same latent network in the snows of Northrend.

His order of give-and-take granted him the pleasure of decided the terms, so when Mort found himself in someone else's debt, he found that being on the other side of the fence wasn't as green as the one he was used to laying pasture on. It was thanks to such an arrangement that the crook was coerced into keeping an eye on a particular blood elf.

His two daggers- curved, keen and poison-tipped- had been crafted as the sole pair in the world. Unique in style, length and shape, they were specifically moulded to his hands- or were. He adjusted to the loss of muscle and sinew over the years by wearing thick, leather gloves. These weapons were folded and crafted in so masterful a way as the blades never held blood. The metal never rusted or dulled and they had become extensions of his very body, remaining unchanging and unaging contrary to their master. Cutting through skin cleaner than a fan through air, they dealt their deaths swiftly and professionally, leaving nary a trace of entrance wound given the chance. Each exit from the sheathed bondage which imprisoned them had each dagger singing with glee and anticipation, a soft note so familiar to Walden that it soon was more comforting than the long-past sound of his own breathing.

Nearly two decades ago, one Trystan Firesworn had forged for seventeen days solid, smelting and hammering the perfect pair of knives for him, and the value was priceless. Knowing this, the blacksmith had called Walden to his forge in the city of Silvermoon and presented him with an ornate wooden box. Lined with crimson velvet, coveting the treasures inside, the box had opened and the Baron had surged with insatiable lust. The lid had snapped closed before he could lay a fingertip on them.

_"I know what these are worth- as do you,"_ the sin'dorei had stated flatly, his fire-tanned face all serious and stern. "And I know you, and what they're going to be used for." Walden had known Trystan for a long time, his work was famed throughout the Kingdoms, so it was only natural for the Baron to demand the best, even if it would take the rest of his undead life to pay it back. Knowing this, Firesworn had placed a hefty pricetag onto the weapons.

"So my one condition on the handing over of these blades is that you use them to protect and defend also."

Walden had readily agreed without question. His target for protection was the smith's son, Ryndan Firesworn.

Now, standing side-to-side with the elf, doubts crossed his mind as to whether today would be the day with the agreement would fall through and Walden would willingly give up his daggers in his failure. A swift evaluation taught him that Ryndan was waning fast. His crumpled helmet lay tossed aside, blood mingled with sweat as it fell down his flushed face. His sword swings were wild and unfocussed- signs of concussion from the head-trauma, no doubt- and their chances of surviving this encounter were dwindling as fast as he was. His breathing sounded gargled and wheezy and his right arm still appeared to be out of use, even after another relocation. Walden swore.

Four foes. Four corners. Three groups.

They had been forced to split when each of the bastards had bolted and they had had trouble staying alive since. The Alliance had chased after the Undead Paladin in a fit of zealous justice, leaving the Horde and Crusade to deal with three. They had descended on the dwarf, who was now dead, leaving Rivendare and the female. Several had collapsed from external damage emitted by the Horsemen left unattended, even Walden had struggled against it and he had sprinted over to her as soon as they had concluded business with the Thane. The Crusaders barring Ryndan and a priest had charged to Stratholme overseer. The Ironic Undead Paladin sobbed and cursed his fate, his sorrow echoing throughout their encounter.

Lightening crackled loudly from their corner, bolting past The Baron by a mere margin to engulf the woman's mount. The horse was not immune to pain, despite its skeletal appearance, as proven when it drew on its hind quarters in anguish. Walden swore loudly at the pink-haired troll, warning him to be  _fucking careful from now on, lest he lose limbs_. From the other side of the agitated steed, fire lit the dark corner as the self-proclaimed Horde leader in Naxxramas assaulted their target with a frenzied precision. The fierce, armoured orc warrioress bellowed warcries and rhythmically smashed at the protections and spells shielding the bitch that forced their attention. Seeking an opportunity while Blaumeux was distracted, Walden broke away from her front and slinked around to the back, only to be hindered by armoured and robed lumps on the floor.

A Tauren bounded towards their corner from an opposite group, clearly keen on dealing hell with his halberd, but the Forsaken had other ideas. Walden threw orders at him, sneering in disgust at the obstacles by his feet.

"You- cow! Cow! Pick up these bodies and get them out of our way!" The bovine stared at him before Walden bellowed at him again to move his ass and give them some fighting space. The dead and fallen were no use to them now! A shout of confirmation from the female troll got him moving and soon the five or so corpses were dragged out of the fray. Half-satisfied, he started to make his way around her again. Each step he took became heavier and more difficult, the repulsive aura she emitted in full effect. Even with his unhindered biology, the Baron was struggling, pushing against an invisible current of Shadow and Darkness-even the  _floor_  felt like it was burning him. Now standing apart from the group he braced himself in a half-crouch and mustered his strength-

"Defend yourself!"

Only with her cry did Walden tumble out of reach of the invocation of horrors she had aimed his way. Evidently she  _disliked_  his presence behind her. Cursing, he parried her next attack and dodged the next, her strength beginning to overwhelm him until she was caught off-guard by a panicked horse. Through its bones, he saw the flash of the only white-tabard in the group as the owner's sword hacked at the mount's upper spine. The anger in Blaumeux's eyes warned Walden a fraction too late.

"YOUR LIFE IS MINE!"

The bolt formed above him, a small, purple-looking sphere. For less than a moment it hovered, suspended over its intended target. Walden's aged eyes did not have time to widen in disbelief before the seemingly harmless orb contorted into a sharp razor and pierced Ryndan's forehead.

There was no time for shock to even register on the paladin before he crumpled into a convulsing heap.

* * *

Jerewyn threw down the last of her newly fletched arrows on the table. Her irritation had reached new heights these past few hours and she was  _pissed_. She had restrung her bow, sharpened each arrow head at least twice and redone all the feather vanes at the end of the shafts to perfection. One bootless foot was resting haphazardly on the inn table, the other was rubbing Miles' fur absently where he lay snoozing on the floor. Another huff of frustration left her. It was so ridiculously quiet that the fire was the noisiest thing in the entire camp! These tables and chairs which had been occupied with raucous laughter and belted-out ballads for the past few weeks now stood empty around her, a strange haunting memento of ghostly memories, mocking her solitude.

There should have been word by now. Why had they not heard anything? It'd been  _hours_ \- nearly a  _full day_  since the raiding party had departed. The sun had set tiredly ages ago, leaving a cluster of rainclouds and puddles in its wake. At least whenever she glanced out the window she couldn't see  _It_ anymore.

How many had died? How many had survived? When would they- the left behind- know? Would they ever? If two days, three or even a week had passed with no word, did that mean failure had dominated?

Lean fingers ran through blonde hair again. This wouldn't do. She wanted to be there- to know, to  _help_. Her biggest peeve and source of anger had been her forced absence from the assault on Naxxramas thanks to her hunting injury. She would have been standing triumphantly with the victors as they were cheered and welcomed all over Northrend. The glory would have been endless.

_Jerewyn, Conqueror of Naxxramas. Jerewyn, the Unkillable- the Undying_. Her brothers would never tease her again after that, she would have been immortalised in history textbooks and legends. Girls would have looked up to her in awe thinking 'I want to be cool like her!'

A smile escaped in spite of her bad mood and she pooled her bundle of arrows into her quiver. Her leg had just about fully recovered as she examined the sole bandage wrapped around it. It was a strange material, cool to touch yet strangely silk-like with insulating properties.  _Frostweave_ , Bart had told her. Commonly found in the Vrykul communities to ward off the chill.

Bart. He was in Naxxramas, volunteered as a medic attendant.  _I wonder if he's alright_ , she thought. Involuntarily her mind wandered to all those she had met from the Crusade- Captain Ryndan, Edrikson the curly-haired, Jason the Joker and that bashful draenei, Danila as well as others; faces from her time spent in this very tavern most nights. That cute mage from the Kirin Tor who'd spoken but a few words to her; Alexander...

Would any of them not come back?

A clatter of crockery awoke her from her partial-doze as she located the source to be the inkeeperess at the bar.

"Sorry lass, didnae mean tae wake ye," she smiled apologetically.

"S'alright, wasn't really sleeping anyway," Jerry mumbled. "Can't really sleep what with- well, y'know."

"Aye, I imagine Dalaran's probably a bit chaotic at the momen'."

"Dalaran? Why Dalaran?"

"That's where they were to take the wounded and infirm, much be'er medical facilities than Wintergarde kin offer."

The huntress pondered for all of twenty-six seconds before pulling her boots on and donning her cloak.

"Come on Miles, we need to get our dear saber from the stables- we've got a capital to get to."

* * *

_The camp was empty, a grey fog settled over it. The earth beneath his feet was frozen over, icicles hanging from the struck, hollow tents, reflecting nothing more than his passing figure. The only sound was his feet crunching on the frost, his breathing was soundless._

_A limited, endless time passed and he stopped by a lone shape squatting on the ground. He opened his mouth to apologise._

"I can't seem to get warm." _The girl said, her skin alabaster and ragged hair transparent._

_What?_

"I can't get warm- the fires, I can't feel them…" _she shivered violently, the shackles around her wrists and ankles rattling._

_He regarded the firepit she sat by. It wasn't lit. It was dead. Like the girl before it, trembling with frigid breaths and blue eyes._

_It was dead, like the twain Corporal Jason. A desiccated heap in an empty chamber._

_It was dead, like the ghosts in Gothik's chamber._

_The fire was dead- just like he was._

With a start he awoke, his breathing ragged, forced and panicked.  _I need to sit up, I need to- I can't breathe!_ His heart battered his ribs, desperate to live, to provide life.  _I can't- the air, it's suffocating!_ The pounding was going to break his chest!

"Firesworn! Calm, man!"

"Dan! Easy there! You're alright!"

Voices, familiar. Spots formed in his eyes, his vision swimming and head spinning. Hyperventilating induced coughing, choking. He tasted blood, bile burned him inside.

"Breathe slowly! Calm yourself down! Come on! Get it out- there we go."

"McGreaves, help him!"

Hands held him, his skull lolled backwards. Faces, people he knew. His lungs weren't on fire anymore. Pain hit him.

"Hold him still!"

"McGreaves! Soren- do something!"

More arms, more hands, more faces. The pain-  _get it away!_  Platinum light burst from behind his eyes and he screamed.

"There…the Mark…it's- it's dispelled…!"

"Firesworn! Ryndan, are you conscious?"

Yes I am, he thought. The pain dissipated, tremours attacking him violently. Vertigo shook his mind. He retched.

"Alright, Dan, you're good now, you're good. Up we go…"

Spitting, Ryndan pulled himself up, only to sway dangerously. Several hands balanced him. Sighs of relief rippled around him.

"By the Light, don't you  _ever_  do that again, Lieutenant-Commander." A heavily-bloodied Ashwood berated him on his left,. Gasping slightly still, Ryndan could only nod, spitting out bile again. On his right, Walden crouched with a strained expression on his taught face. He caught a glimpse of an ominous shadow- no, it was Terowin's dark outline standing just a little ways away. His axe was dripping onto the floor.

"You fool,  _why_ did you have to aggravate her?" Walden demanded, his lower jaw clenched tightly to the threat of dislocation again. The paladin closed his eyes and cradled his head, groaning. An awkward pat on the back nauseated him, but he didn't have the energy or stomach contents to vomit again.

"Seemed like a good idea at the time," his raspy voice choked out. "Did you defeat them?" A small silence met him. Terror tightened Its grasp around him.

"Do you think you'd be talking to us if we hadn't?" McGreaves' booming voice answered from behind him. Ryndan sat numb, holding his head gingerly, unable to comprehend. Over and over he repeated the words in his head, the echo reaching the deepest parts of his trembling psyche. Then possibility and hope bloomed.

They had done it. The four quarters were defeated. Naxxramas had fallen.

"We did it," he whispered. "We did it." Once again, there was an echo, but it was outside of his head this time. The statement passed the lips of every conscious person standing there that day. A murmur to reaffirm their very lives- that they had survived, and they had done it. All they had suffered and their predecessors had died for hadn't been in vain.

"Aye, that we did, lad. That we did."

No one made comment of the tears that fell.

* * *

Their arrival at the centre was met with stunned silence. It had taken what had felt like an hour to traverse back through the Wing. The injured were too many. The dead, too heavy. Everyone was carrying- or being carried by- someone else. Crusaders supported Horde. Horde took Alliance over their shoulders. Alliance carried Horde corpses with the same grim expression as if holding their own.

They ignored the slain enemies. Refused to look at the bodies. Ryndan never looked back to see, but he knew that an unspoken agreement had settled between Darksworn and Walden and the pair worked to set each and every corpse they passed. He later learned that the Kirin Tor Mage, Alexander also aided in the cremations. The dead were going to  _remain_  dead.

He could practically taste the fresh air now. It was growing noticeably cooler the closer to the middle they drew. Their scraping feet and occasional moans of aching were the only sounds heard in the disclosed world that had held them captive for the last few hours. The silence felt out of place here. Peace was not synonymous with The Dread Citadel, Naxxramas.

When they exited the wing finally, their frail gazes fell upon shocked faces. Shaky, bloody hands paused in their tasks, collective breaths of disbelief were taken. Nobody moved. It was in that moment did Ryndan realise truly that not one person here actually expected to come out of this alive. Somewhere, probably not-so-deep-down, each individual that came through the entrance to Naxxramas had made peace within themselves that this Unholy ground was to be their final resting place. The thought was enough to induce nausea again. He wasn't supposed to have come back, and the stationary medics had accepted that-  _expected_  that. So to see survivors definitely proved to be shock-worthy.

"You're alive," a healer whispered.

"They made it?" a dwarf asked.

"By the Light, they came back!" Someone cried.

"They're here! Bless Elune!"

The central hospital descended upon the victors and brought them comfort and relief.

Amidst the transferal of bodies, wounded, dead, and unconscious to mats, Ryndan slumped to the floor beside the nervous troll from before. He noted a talisman in the tri-fingered hands of the shaman and watched curiously as the troll muttered unintelligible prayers under his breath. His wooden artefacts lay neatly by his feet, Ryndan momentarily surprised that such frail-looking things had survived also. He turned, regarding his comrades and friends. Scenes like that were playing all around him now. Outside was evidently night-time as no daylight filtered into the open entrances beneath them. Torches had been lit and the hospital had been half-packed when they arrived. With another start did the Lieutenant Commander realise that they central staff probably thought them all to be dead and were preparing to leave. He wouldn't have blamed them.

Chatter grew as he leaned back against a pillar to listen. Closing his eyes, he audibly filtered what he heard. Prayers of Healing, spells of mending, mutters of thanks to deities old and new. Wails of grief and cries of woe weaved in and out, soft sobs for those lives lost and for trauma gained. The Commander was right, wounds of the mind would take far longer than wounds of the body to heal, if they ever did. Such scars couldn't be treated with magic or potions, only time.

He shifted, divesting what little armour he still wore, the majority of it now crushed and crumbled under so much strain in so short a time period. He took a moment to mourn the Earthforged set, his own father having crafted it for him many years ago when he reached full adulthood. His right shoulder was completely locked now, he could hardly move it. Despite bearing great agony and pain, Ryndan wasn't in any more immediate danger, McGreaves had dealt with most of his wounds back in the Horsemen's Chamber and Ryndan had felt rarely so allayed in his stress.

The sooner the most grievous were able to move, they would get out of here, he reckoned. His body was crying out for rest and shook at irregular intervals from exertion. Sleep seemed like a wonderful idea at the moment… yet he couldn't displace the feeling of ill-intent pressing on him still from all around…

"Commander, we seem to have a problem." Ashwood's clear-cut voice was all too recognisable beneath the general noise of the medical bay. Snapping his eyes open, he eventually located her form crouched next to a grim Dawnbringer, both partially-hidden by shadow. Eligor turned attentively to her and flinched, she was still blood-drenched, Ryndan noted. She dropped her voice further. "Apparently about an hour ago- approximately the same time we slew the last of them, a blue orb appeared below here."

"What?" The Expeditionary Commander hissed, straightening immediately.

"That's not all- the central team here ventured a look at it. According to the Head Healer, a mage approached the orb, reached out to examine it and disappeared. No one has seen him since," Ryndan's superior relayed. To both their surprise, Eligor started to quake visibly, swallowing hard.

"There was a rumour, we couldn't confirm…no, it can't be…impossible…!" he hissed.

"Commander?"

"Where's your death knight?"

"Darksworn? Still burning the dead- why?"

"He may know-"

"I'm here, and your assumptions are correct, human." Terowin's tall figure emerged in front of the two startled Commanders, but more noticeably was the lack of usual gusto and attitude in his stance. Ryndan straightened, watching them intently. The elf started to sort through some of the packed crates, pulling the new Frostweave blankets, capes and shirts that Bartheleus had painstakingly made these last few weeks. He emptied crate after crate of the items on the floor.

"Darksworn what are you-?"

"I've just seen your frozen orb downstairs, and it's not there for decoration. I'm afraid our work isn't finished yet, you're going to need these garments." He swore loudly, causing several heads to swivel their way. "I should have  _known_ \- I never thought for  _a moment_  he'd leave Arthas' side in Icecrown though…" he muttered, his voice sounding strange in his self-echoing whisper. "For him to be here would be- it's just so incredible... _Why didn't I sense him!?_ " he paused in his sorting, his scowled expression abstract. Another oath left his lips as he threw another crate hard to the ground, splintering it.

"Darksworn!" the Argent Commander hissed. Dropping to one knee, he ignored her and unsheathed his now-clean axe and all around watched on as a frosted aura gently whirled around the weapon. Ashwood growled, and she received a levelled look in return. Something actually troubled Terowin and that did not bode well for the rest of them. All attention was on the mixed group.

"Your mage is dead," Walden came up the dais with- with  _icicles_  formed on his body. He too was swearing quietly.

"What?"

Walden didn't miss a beat, "The fat mage, he's dead. Deceased. Departed. Colder than me. Gone to meet his maker. Expired. Passed on. Not among the living or undead. Pushing up daisies. Out of one's misery, if you like."

"You touched the orb?" Eligor spluttered. Ryndan's friend nodded, snapping another small chunk of ice from his shoulder and ejecting it out of the upper ring with a startlingly loud reverberation.

"Aye, reckoned someone should. Luckily, the elf and I possess something of a head start on surviving below-freezing temperatures, unlike your bloated friend who is now taking up a new hobby as an unsightly ice sculpture. " The report was delivered deadpan, chilling Ryndan's fragile nerves further. "There's a similar orb in the ante-chamber to come back and a disturbingly large pile of disjointed bones in the middle."

Ashwood was livid. " _Fools,_  you should have consulted with us first- what if you were unable to return?" Walden merely shrugged but Terowin answered anyway, interrupting her next tirade.

"Tell me, Commander Ashwood," the use of her proper title was enough to warn of his severity, even the Commander did a double-take. "Do you happen to know the exact, current whereabouts of the lich _, Kel'Thuzad_?"


	43. Interlude III- Brambon Gilwhistle

Brambon Gilwhistle is old. He is old, and sore and drunk.

A dwarf of several decades, with hair streaked blonder than it is grey, he has travelled far. He's travelled up and down countries, continents, mountains and gorges. He's survived the wars- well, avoided them mostly by being half-way around the world when they occurred. He has no affiliation to any faction, content to wander on his own away from  _politics_. No lady or courtship ties him down, no children to steal his pay, just him and his self.

His legacy was his own and he was content with that. Fine wines have been sampled across the globe- and even  _off_  it at the Outlands. He's had women and whores by the dozens during his time, loving the plump hips, plumper arses and too-big-for-his-hands-tits. He's stayed in fine inns, rundown taverns and camped under the stars. He's been burnt, scratched, bitten, poisoned and even nigh-on skinned once over his career as an explorer. He's seen things that most people wouldn't even have the capacity to dream about whilst flying high as a cloud, been to places others have only heard about in late-night taprooms from some wayward traveller or read about in books. And for a while, for a really long while a weariness settled in him that he couldn't shake. A wanderlust he could no longer slake. He had grown tired of it, that is, until they called for aid in the North.

Northrend was supposed to be an adventure. One last hurrah before the autumn years chilled into winter and he faded into obscurity and namelessness.

It wasn't.

Horrors and death were none too lacking on this damnable place and Brambon was just itching to move on and away from it all. Further and further he went, convinced that his whiskers would freeze off  _before_  his toes but only  _after_  his balls had ascended to another plane of existence. The Tundra was cruel. Beautiful in its cold way, but cruel nonetheless. The Basin was no different. How such a climate existed this far north baffled him but there was something not natural about it, so he scarpered as soon as he could navigate out of the damnable place. Uncannily was he reminded of the Un'Goro Crater and it spooked him too much to convince him to stay in that jungle. Crystalsong had been an elf's wet dream and his worst nightmare. Glass trees, magic spiking the air at random intervals and creating such a static that his beard took on its own individiuality.

Grateful to be out of there he went further east, skipping around the cursed Zul'Drak until he found the Peaks. The Peaks were …their own entity. Vitality existed in the Storm Peaks such as he'd never witnessed before. The constant thunder, the never-ending snow, the dark mountains rising up to the sky like an unexplored heaven. Love wasn't uncommon for him- he'd loved several of his wenches, but this,  _this_  was deeper than love. He felt complete. Complete and intimate and  _home_ , in these peaks. Somewhere, in the creaky old bones still holding his meat suit upright, Brambon knew this is where he would live out his remaining winter days- in the heart of winter itself.

However, being as old as he is, his body was toiling with exertion by the time he reached northmost cost and for an unknown amount of time he sat looking out to the top of the world. Nature, however, soon forced him to higher ground where he was in luck of finding Bouldercrag's Refuge.

And so he stayed.

For months now he's been here, occasionally venturing out to view the strange uncovered… _city_  almost, across the way, but no safe passage has been found to it yet- at least not by any means  _he'd_  be willing to try. His stone-dwarven-brothers are mum on the architecture, despite several people who have passed through adamantly declaring that the very place playing house to Brambon is of the same design as the structures to the north. He doesn't care. He's here for the ale and the ale is there for him. He's too seasoned to be put off by a new race of dwarf emerging, even if they claim to be older than he and his kin and all that implies. All he cares about is making sure his tankard never runs dry.

It's during one of these semi-blissful nights, when the wind threatens the mountain he resides in and the mountain pointedly ignores the wind and continues doing as mountains do, that the doors to the refuge burst open in a crash of surprise, almost throwing a party of four into the cave where they land not-so-gracefully on the floor in a heap.

It takes just as many as four to reclose the doors against the gales attempted to upset the cave while the newcomers bar one upright themselves. Feeling extremely nosey and not so polite, Brambon leaves the innkeeper and his bar to gander at the most interesting thing to happen today. Three females- a cow, a troll and a she-elf brush off themselves, lowering their packs to the floors and divesting of the most soaked outer-garments. Brambon doesn't try to hide his appreciative leer, but he does sense that these are professional, or at least intelligent, going by their proper gear and general demeanour and so he respects them enough to not lech too much. If they had been airheads like his usual bedmates then well…well, they probably wouldn't have survived this far north.

Only when they call for help for the fourth member does Brambon realise that it's a man and he's not moving. In fact, he doesn't think in all of his travels that he's seen a human so blue before.

"Dead," many mutter, dispersing into the background in revived boredom and monotony. This was not unusual in these parts but Brambon stays still however, listening in, his nosiness not quite sated just yet. The innkeeper comes forwards with blankets and directions to the bath-room, but they don't move, fussing around the man instead.

As far as Brambon can make out from hoarse whispers, thick accents and chapped lips, this man wasn't one of theirs, he was found in a snow-drift and had clearly been there for a while, but an indeterminable while at that. Nameless Joe is cleared enough of ice to identify a face scrunched up in pain or defeat, facial hair present enough to identify him as a grown man, rather than a boy and dark enough to at least imply the colour of his hair. This information is enough for the Innkeeper to take to his books and check the Missing Persons lists, while he directs some of the stone-dwarves to take the body to the back room to defrost. The girls watch it solemnly and his respect grows for them a bit. Out here, no one has to-  _wants_   _to_ \- risk their necks for an icicle, but they did it anyway and Brambon can appreciate that.

They too leave to clean up, taking their wet clothes and packs with them to dry out and no doubt Brambon will see them around for a few days while they recover and wait and see for any potential frostbite to kick in. He looks forward to striking up conversation and getting the latest gossip in the world and makes a note to approach them tomorrow. Content in this plan, he makes to resume his usual routine. Dejectedly, he notes the state of his mug and sways back to his now-claimed seat.

"A sad cloud always hangs over us when we get another one in," Bouldercrag himself mentions, sitting in beside the grizzled dwarf.

"Aye, but that's the way the world turns," he shrugs and waves his tankard at the innkeeper, "'ere, get us another, will ye?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...WoD, eh?


	44. Haunted Surreality

_ Four Days Since the  _ Secondary Assault on Naxxramas _  Began. _

There was something about Dalaran that put Jerewyn ill at ease. Perhaps it was the immaculate paving or neatly trimmed shrubbery. Maybe it was the sky-high spires, too smooth and incongruous to be of normal, hardwearing architecture. It was just far too  _pretty_  to be of any use, really. Whatever it was, she felt very out of place amongst the robed hustle and bustle rushing about the streets. Turmoil was abound everywhere- folk running errands, hurriedly pushing by others. Shouting, bartering from the street vendors (Their wares were of the  _absolute_  best quality!) with angry hagglers. Inns and taverns had guests pouring in and out- either drunk or about to become so. Singing, wild laughter and jeers trumpeted into the already noisy outside just adding to the huntress's already demanding headache.

In need of direction, she was overlooked several times from ignorant asses, and so dropping the polite 'excuse me' she instead grabbed a random sleeve and demanded bearings. The poor, pasty fellow at the end of the sleeve looked startled out of his wits, nearly dropping his journals and books but she was far too tired to  _care_  at this point. For three days she had travelled, and for three days she had bitten her nails to the quick with excited anticipation, eager to hear all the stories and deeds. Travelling exhaustion across Dragonblight however had set in sooner than she liked and it made her fractious. She needed to know where the medical wards were, and she needed to know it  _now_. The poor bloke stammering, she was directed over yonder and across a few streets: "you'll know it when you see it," she was assured. Releasing her captive, he stumbled away ignoring the loose page leafs now forming a breadcrumb trail behind him. An utterance of 'madwoman' and other unkind words reached her ears as he scarpered. She laughed in spite of this, his skittering reminiscent of a mouse in flight from a cat. It was at this point she remembered that her own cat- her rather large and spotted sabre, Callie, was behind her with Miles at her side. A laugh escaped her at the image.

"Woops. Seeing you two with an irritable mistress is more than enough to make anyone want to change their unmentionables, eh?" she commented, though her furry audience were less than impressed. "Fine, whatever. Come on you two, the quicker we get there the sooner we can fill our bellies- I'm starvin'!"

It took perhaps a good half-hour to locate the secluded area. The medical facilities were sign posted and neatly planned. Their clever design allowed for simple navigation and organisation with little fuss and matching architecture to the rest of the flowery city, but the people working there weren't. Just when she thought the streets were the limit in chaos, she came to the hospitals. Rather cleverly, she thought, she backtracked and left her companions in a local stable for food and respite before returning to venture forth. Her purse lighter and party disbanded, she strode forth into the gardened grounds eager for a familiar face.

The nurses wore gowns of purple and white, the males- tunics of the same tones. Races of all kind flooded across the courtyard centralising the buildings in hurried manners. Some, like her startled prey from earlier, ran with books and texts. Others walked with swirling potions in crystal phials, not watching their steps and threatening others around with their incompetence. Quite naughtily did Jerewyn like standing out in this sea of conformity. Her green, practical chainmail, and fur-lined boots and cloak served as an obvious contrast and she liked it for once. Too used to camouflaging in underbrush and treelines to hunt, being visible was something she enjoyed. She wasn't the only visitor. A blond head atop familiar Kirin Tor robes caught her attention and she waved him over. Confoundedly, a breath of relief escaped her upon sighting the guy.

"Alexander! You're here! What happened? I need to hear all about it! Come and tell me all the-" Stopped in her tracks she gasped at his expression.

She wasn't prepared for the harrowed look in his blue eyes when he turned to regard her.

* * *

I slammed the book shut. "Edmund! This is of no use! The pages are stuck and it won't let me finish." Said literature flew a short flight, landing with a semi-satisfying 'thump' on the rug. A chuckle resonated from the opposite chair.

A  _chuckle_. The bastard.

"Then it is not yet time for you to finish reading, impatient woman." I wanted to wipe the smirk from his face. Disgusted, I averted my gaze to the window behind him. Daylight, though just barely, was evident through the glass. Heavy rainclouds dominated the skyline and a perpetual downpour provided a peaceful ambience to smooth my temper. There was just something about the rain that makes me want to curl up in my armchair and sleep. And the dock bells rang in the distance…

"What are you pondering about so intensely?" his voice carried through my trance. I regarded his unaltered appearance. Still garbed in his loose shirt, weskit and breeches, Edmund watched me with that same air of curiosity and mischief he carried with him everywhere. With a bitter regret did I recall that he wasn't real.  _Oh yes_ , that much I had surmised.

After the last incident 'here', it was easy to determine that I was in my own head. A nice sort of comfortable place- somewhere familiar of course. The company wasn't so bad, even if imaginary- though when he threw cheeky grins and flirtatious smirks my way it was  _really_  difficult to remember that part. Time passed like it does in dreams- unnoticed- and I've never really felt hungry, thirsty or in need of any other biological necessities either so it hadn't taken long to realise something wasn't quite right. Lucid dreaming, I think it was called, when you realise you're in a dream but still sleeping. My previous panic had long passed, any damage that whatever it was had done to the environment had been repaired unnoticed by me- if it had even been damaged in the first place. Hallucinations were probably all part of the parcel in this trip down insanity-lane. I think that if I were losing my mind, it wasn't so bad a place to ride it out. It was constant and unaltered, and I kind of liked the peace that offered, to be honest. The only thing that  _had_  changed was the book. That damned book.

Every so often I picked up _Alchemical Fundamentals- Nature and the Universe_  and would re-read it from the start to find I could delve into a few extra pages from where I had last read up to. Annoyingly, however, the bloody thing wouldn't let me go past these self-appointed stopping points. Still fully ensconced in the  _Decline and Finality_  chapter of the book, I wasn't even sure  _why_  I was reading it in the first place. My fingers just itched to pick it up every now and then and it irritated me something  _awful_. The tome in question received a  _very_  well deserved glare. Indifferently, it ignored me from its rightful place on the floor.  _That_  irritated me further.

"Maybe I should burn it."

"Stop hating the book, it did nothing wrong," my companion admonished.

"It just  _wants_  you to think that."

"Dearest, it's a book, it doesn't  _want_  me to think  _anything-_ it's just there to relay information. What can a harmless bundle of paper do to you?"

"It can piss me off, that's what! Why-  _why_  even let me read it at all if it won't let me finish?" I threw an accusatory hand at said 'harmless bundle of paper' but it sat silently in response. Groaning, I buried my head in my arms, unable to keep mad with him so … so damned  _happy_  across from me.

"Impatient woman," he repeated, laughing. Out of the corner of my eye did I see him get up and walk to the desk. "Come here, you." Peeking over revealed he was now sitting cross-legged on my cot with a simple, wooden brush in one hand. It took little coaxing to get me seated in front of him- real or not, having my hair brushed was still a nice feeling here in la-la land. "Hold this," he ordered, pass the brush to me and I sighed as his hands released my hair from its bun, my simple, brown hair tumbling to my shoulders. Tender fingers worked through, combing it out and pulling it gently away from my neck. Each time his skin passed over mine, a small shiver went through me and I took foolish delight from it. My annoyance melted away at his touch.

I may as well enjoy these fantasies, should I not?

My eyes closed as he subtly pried the brush from my fingers, another sigh escaping me as the bristles travelled my hair's length. Over and over, in a sweet repetition did the brush make this journey. I wasn't sure how long we were there, my relaxed state completely at his oh-so-pleasant mercy. A trance became me and it was all too easy to succumb to his hypnotic ministrations. I came to when realisation whispered to me that he had long since stopped. His arms were nestled around my midriff, my head on his shoulder as he leaned back against the headboard of the bed. The brush lay discarded. Stirring, I turned my sleepy attention to him, my temple brushing with his coarse stubble.

"Mm, she wakes." The timbre of his rough voice reverberated against his chest, my entire body able to feel this with shy ecstasy. I could not help the smile.

"She does, and she thanks the kind sir for his services. They were  _most_  appreciated."

He chuckled, "I'm sure they were." A calloused hand travelled to twirl in my hair. I inhaled the scent of wood and leather from him…it seemed so- so  _real_.

"I want to stay like this forever," I mumbled, burying my head into his shoulder and inhaling further. His hand paused. Delicately did it take my chin, tilting my head just so and allowing our mouths to meet. Sweet, gentle and timid it was not, but the kiss held something deeper- a longing and need that belied frenzied passion and yet retained the softness of a passing breeze. Too soon did he pull away, my inner self bristling with mild disappointment.

"I'm afraid it's not yet time. We can- and will- eventually and that's all that matters, but for now, you must return."

I shifted grumpily. "Don't want to."

"They are calling for you."

I sat up and regarded him in shadow- the fire was now depleted and darkness had fallen outside. The rain had stopped. "Who is?" His head tilted, causing his shaggy hair to fall across his eyes. My fingers twitched to move it.

"We will see each other again. You will find me. Goodbye, Cersae."

"'Goodbye'? I don't understand-" This was too sudden-  _no!_

_"She was a phantom of delight, when first she gleam'd upon my sight,"_  he started saying.

"Edmund, what are you doing? Who's calling?"

_"A lovely apparition, sent to be a moment's ornament."_  My back was ramrod straight now as I took his shoulders beneath my frail hands.

"Edmund! Please! What's going on?" Shaking him I cried as dawn burst through the window, the sudden light painful to bear. His sad, ember eyes were trained on me. His hand reached beyond mine to twirl my hair again- only now it was white. Just like before…

_"Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; like twilight's, too, her dusky hair…"_

"I – what's going on? Edmund!" My panic rose with the sun, the room now flooding with illumination and the chanting voice of my beloved. My hands on his shoulders turned skeletal, horrified I could only watch. The sun rose to its highest peak.

I lost him to a burst of white and blind with panic and confusion did I last look upon him.

Then it went dark and I knew nothing.

The first thing that my consciousness registered was that I was laying down. That I was intact. And that I was in a  _great deal of agony._

I ran a mental check. My strength…sapped. My will…faint. My heart, beating.

"But all things else about her drawn, from May-time and the cheerful dawn…"

What the…that voice. So familiar. Ohh, my  _head_. Pounding, it grabbed my attentions- immediate and otherwise.

"A dancing shape, an image gay…"

Who  _is_  that? Hello? Can you hear me? Acute pain  _tore_  through my dark vision, a monument of coloured shapes ripping through my skill, resting on my closed eyelids.  _Ahh_! Please,  _please_  stop the pain… the back of my skull feels like it will  _break_  beneath the weight of it.  _Please_ …

"To haunt, to startle, and waylay…"

A moan left my dry lips. A clutter and disruption of noise erupted.

"Oh! You're awake! Well that's a relief to be sure." A woman…who? I didn't find out as a gush of water trespassed my throat and stampeded to my lungs compelling me to choke. Hauled upright, it was forced from my body and I was able to gaze up the face of my keeper. Her name left my voice quicker than I noticed the abundance of bright orange around her head.

"Lu…ciya…" another cough assaulted my weak body, the taste of metal presence against my tongue.

"Easy there, kiddo, you've had quite an ordeal." She leaned me back against some pillows, allowing my eyes to adjust to the lighting of the room. Plain, adept and enough, the room held the bed I lay in, a cabinet beside it - a leather journal resting atop it-and an eager woman in a high-backed armchair. Slowly- and with visual warning- did the goblet of water travel to my mouth again by way of her. I took three sips before feeling too ill to continue. The liquid travelled in an ice-cold trail down my innards, the path a shock to the senses and an unsettling development to my stomach.

"Where…?" Forming words coherently was akin to walking through mud, but doing so with a broken throat was trying to walk through mud while drowning and only sinking deeper.

"Dalaran, love. You're in Dalaran. The boys rescued you from Naxxramas and you were brought here. According to Bart the healers didn't know what to do with you, but you somehow upset everyone around with your presence so they placed you in a private room. They've only been back a few days from that wretched place but that blond elf had been working day and night trying to keep you livin'. He's not long left to rest, actually." I could see her watching me intently but my focus was shot.

So much information loaded on me at once dizzied me to the point of nausea. Naxxramas…Bart…Dalaran…Naxxramas…An image of a blonde elf floated in my mind but I couldn't place her name right now.

"Naxx…ra-…Naxx…ram-as?" I mustered. Luci shifted in her armchair, throwing her legs over one side and started admiring her nails.

"Er, yeah. They assaulted it- not that I think you're aware of that seeing as you skipped off there before they stepped inside. Why on earth did you do that anyway? No- don't speak, you'll hurt yourself. You need your strength back first. Lynara said you were responding to his treatment but it's slow-going apparently. He looked  _dreadful_. Mind you, nearly two days in that damned place would do that to anyone I suppose. Bart's not as bad, but there's something behind his eyes now…"

She rattled on, the details escaping me as I instead sleepily pondered this…was this reality? My time with Edmund, simply and truly only a dream? Groaning, I cursed my returning migraine.

"Not that he's even talking to me really, only bumped into him by accident by the infirmary. Took me ages to get the details of you considering all he wants to do is ignore me…" she continued. With each hyped word and exaggerated tut did I feel myself dividing from my dream world. Too used to being able to flex, stand, move, shout, laugh at any given time that I felt spoiled by the illusion, a bitterness slowly creeping its way over my wanting to return. Tremors overtook me and I shivered.

"Oh! You must be cold, hang up a moment." Paying surprisingly good attention to me, a new blanket was unfolded and moulded around my already covered form. I saw bandages beneath the sheets as they rustled, my aching limbs doing little but lay wrapped in their agony.

"Hmm, perhaps I should cover your head." Squinting at each other, I raised a curious eyebrow. "Oh, your hair seems to have mostly fallen out or something. It's all wispy and thin-looking. Not going to lie dear, you look  _horrific_."

My hair was gone? Pushing past the intensity of the subsiding headache, I forced my concentration and bodily perception on the surface of my skull, and realised she was right. My head felt cold, the few strands I did see dangling pathetically in my eyesight were barely visible and apologetic. Grievously did I recall the abundance of hair from my dream…the same hair that Edmund had touched. And now it was gone.

_It wasn't the same hair._

It didn't matter, I decided. A girl was allowed to mourn the loss of her locks.

Shuffling from the corner of the room drew me from my dire musings and Luci stood up with a wad of cloth in her hands. White, plain, simple.

"Here we are. I hope you don't mind-" she pulled me forward a little, testing my own sitting capabilities. Deciding they were adequate on my strength alone, she left me upright and started folding the cloth around my head. "-but I peeked through your belongings. I was a little bored, I confess, while waiting for you to wake. Anyhow, I found this in your pack and it seems to do the trick. There!"

The material was pleasant and smooth, a comfort and ward against the nearly dissipated migraine. I smiled my thanks weakly and allowed her to rest me back. The pillows were so soft and inviting…but not warm and life-filled like leaning against Edmund had been. Wistfully did I peer to the corner housing a brown satchel-

"My pack?" Testing my voice wasn't as painful this time, the glass pieces in my throat having shattered some.

"Ah, yeah. That undead fellow of yours- Mort, was it?- dropped it off a couple of days ago. He's been fretting something rotten, I tell you- err, no pun intended. Poppin' in every now and then several times a day to check on you. He was  _adamant_  that he wanted to watch over but I firmly said I'd do it. I didn't think you'd appreciate a man- dead or otherwise- cleaning your wounds and lady parts, so I told him to piss off and check in later. Put up a fight but I told him where to get. You were in perfectly capable hands. Can't do much about that Lynara guy though, he kind of needs to see your wounds… I don't suppose you remember anything about it all-?"

Words left her mouth at an alarming rate, regaling the wounds I'd gained and what was being done about them, but one word in her explanation stood out. One thing about her story that triggered something other than pain, something  _hotter_  than pain, burning brighter and more violently than any agony I was under. A name that surged the anger and hatred that I was unaware I was capable of producing.

_Mort._  Yeah, he'd be 'checking' on me all right, making sure I didn't tattle. Betrayal coiled in my uneasy stomach at the thought of my once-friend. Memories, broken and scattered started piecing together in a clear image of Venomspite and the shadow of the necropolis.

He had tricked me and lured me, only to leave me to the hungry wolves governing Naxxramas, and I had not forgotten- oh, no. Indeed I had not forgotten. Swearing confrontation and demanding compensation, I swallowed my anger for him alone for no doubt he would catch wind of my awakening soon. Instead I turned to my company in a bid to seem  _normal,_ to conserve my energy for that particular conversation.

"So- you say they attacked Naxxramas? How did that go?" I forced through gritted teeth and deepset betrayal. Her own look was of brief panic and hesitation, unbothered by my interruption. Drawing her knees to her chest, Luciya looking small and fragile on that chair. With a flash of worry towards me, she haltingly told me what she knew- and I wasn't prepared for even half of it.

"Well, some survived but from what I've heard about them…"

* * *

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

_The noise transmitted all around. The darkness, its weight bearing down on him heavier than his broken armour, did not halt its bodily crush. Each step was tentative and calculated- his ribs fractured in protest, his joints shattered in pain. His skin cried hot while his blood ran chill._

_A rhythmic beat to the echo pounded as he forced his way forward. His footsteps silent, the only sound confronting him was from an unknown source._

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

_A shadow moved. A breath was hitched. Cries faltered. Ice exploded. Bones once scattered, towered high and dominant, demanding demise, bloodthirsty for death. He must be sated._

_He ran. His heart hammered against his chestplate, the piece cracking further with each footfall. Leather straps failed him, his armour deserting him._

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

_His blade met flesh, tearing through blindly, his flight unhindered._

Need to escape, must survive. Need to survive, must escape _. Over and over, the mantra concurred with the weeping echo in the ominous abyss._

_His bones began to freeze. His blood boiled in defiance, craving freedom. Slowed, he stood still, the endless dark watching him carefully for aeons._

_Struggling, panting, crying, swearing, shouting, kicking, screaming, yelling, and dying did the Paladin fight against the indestructible assailant. Frost spread through his limbs. Into his guts. Down his spine and to his heart. His last breath dissipated into nothingness._

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

_His tears were hot and frozen on his cheeks, caught in time, numb forever._

_Chains clattered, winding across the floor serpentine. Entwining his armour-encased legs, meandering across his ribs and encircling his throat. Heinous forms- large and disfigured, entrails pouring to the floor- pulled the bondage tight and cruel, the choking cacophonous and silent against the ever-swallowing dark. He panicked in vain. A disembodied spirit howled her cackles, shrieking curses to the endarkened skies above._

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

_Limbs strewn across the field, far as his eyes could see. He could not close them, they would not shut. Tears on his eyelashes, glassine and eternal, shone dim in the never-ending graveyard. White tabards, shredded and stained, limply hung from former comrades. Spines stretched in last-ditch efforts, arms thrown forward for a miracle never begotten lay skeletal and unblessed on The Field of Death. Sinew decorated each discarded weapon, torn from bone and stripped from muscle. The skin fluttered in a dying wind, gross and vulgar._

_Faceless skulls accused him of murder._

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

_Horrified, his gasp was stuck, the stench of undeath invading his lungs, defiling his blood, cursing his soul._ I didn't mean- I couldn't save you-

_His apology was never spoken. His prayers- unanswered. Stuck on the tip of his blackened tongue, the words he could not utter._

_Screams rose loud, moans harmonised inhumanly. A severed torso – desiccated and broken- wept with wretched howls._

For the Light, it was all for the Light.

_But the Light never came. It never saved him. Alone, in the darkness he served no purpose. His Torment, shapeless and brutal, cruel and intense, judging and merciless in his survival, haunted him with faces never to see day again._

_A Lich's eyes overcast, laughing at his virtual demise, his insanity only a seedling to cultivate in this darkened hour. The Paladin could not run. On the road to Damnation will he walk, each step one closer to the abyss. Banished to oblivion where the frozen heart of Naxxramas claimed his spirit._

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

_It pooled at his feet, sanguine and condemning. Each droplet a nail in his armoured coffin. Ryndan's sword wept holy blood- and it was that of his own kin._

The scream was silent on his lips. Blue from fright and fear, he could not pry his fingers from the sweat-soaked sheets. Too rigid where they from the icy terror freezing him in place. Desperate for air, his heart thudded his ribs over and over, each blow drawing Ryndan closer and closer to the present.

The ghostly faces of his soldiers floated in front of his face.

Bodily reflex dominating, he drew breath- gasping and shrill as each inhalation created a new pain, forcing his focus. Black spots swirled in his vision and his tears ran unchecked, his pillow already wet.

Slowly- whether it was minutes, hours or longer- did he calm enough to rationalise. A dread, frenzied and untamed, clawed at the back of his skull, forcibly restrained by the agony assaulting his physical form.

A dream. A nightmare. A memory _\- no_. A nightmare.

His breathing regulated though uneven, his sheets stayed scattered to the floor from his hysteria. The ward of the hospital, dimly lit and heavily occupied, surrounding him warily, the open window hesitantly granting a breeze to cool him- the nearest occupant to it.

Dizzily and weakly did he pull himself upright, the soft curtains moving towards him in askance of his condition. His right shoulder groaned in protest, and Ryndan harnessed the constant aching as an anchor to reality. Bound across his chest, his arm felt the pulse and thump of his terrified heart. Staring at his bare feet on the furred rug, he couldn't help but recall his nightly ordeal.

Ever since they had departed, shy of being unconscious, it was all he saw when his eyes shut in need of rest. Sleep evaded him, sending its darker brother to occupy Ryndan in his slumber. Lethargy weighed him down, demanding respite and restoration to his broken body, but he was being denied it fiercely. Others suffered the same, their own cries circumventing the wards in mindless mutters and sobbing stutters. The nurses granted them the frowned-upon potions that allowed for dreamless sleep, but due to high chances of addiction, they were only allocated a certain amount. His own phial lay unstopped on his nightstand, already more than half used in the past two days. With a trembling hand did he administer another dose, the fluid crawling down his throat as though trespassing. His distress called for relief, and so he guzzled the barbiturate in an effort to banish it.

He stared beyond the window- the dark of night permeated by glowing windows and flickering torches. Stars twinkled unbothered from afar, peaking through clouds innocently, ignorant of trauma suffered by those below. Figures passed in the streets dividing buildings and houses, oblivious to the suffering of so many in the hospital of Dalaran.

Ryndan's eyes drooped, a stupor threatening him once more. Gingerly he lay back down, ignoring the need for cold sheets against his burning skin. The pillows, soft and feathered, welcomed him carefully and cradled him into a nightmare-free sleep.

He did not hear the bells chime midnight, nor the laughter of the people across town. He did not hear the whispers of his fellow ward-mates or the questions of concern from a night-duty healer. His own breathing sounded foreign to him, the blood pumping in his veins strange to him. He only heard the echoing screams of those who had succumbed to death at the hands of Naxxramas.

The Panic, so forcibly repressed, covertly broke free of its trappings and its ghastly tendrils took a hold of his subconscious once more. By morning, he had been cleaned of all evidence of thrashing and laceration unto himself in his nightly unrest. And each day he awoke with new scars.

His phial soon ran empty.


	45. Jamais Vu

"So it crumbled and plummeted to the ground?"

"That's the reports from Wintergarde. It's in complete ruins now."

"Huh."

I digested the information with surprising ease as I sat upright in my bed, sinking backwards into my fluffy pillows. Terowin- attempting to be dark and ominous by leaning against the wall opposite me (arms crossed of course)- relayed the tale of their venture into Naxxramas. Stories of spiders and insectile creatures, reanimated matter and a Lich were too…too  _surreal_ , seeming so far away despite my (apparently two-week) sojourn in there.

Two weeks. It had felt like years, the time I passed with Edmund idly in front of the crackling fire. I didn't remember the ghostly feeling of having my hair brushed anymore, the headscarf from Talia now wrapped neatly around my near-bald skull. Luci helped clean me up, aiding with my hygiene and wound-dressing. I had been awake for less than a day now but something was apparent- I wasn't to be left alone right now. When Luce had left to do what she needed to- sleep, eat, wash, whatever- Terowin was called to step in and keep me company. My baby-sitting remained a mystery to me, but I rolled with it unable to do much anyway about it. I could barely sit up and drink broth never mind stand and walk out the door.

And so to pass the last few hours as dusk faded to night he had enlightened me to the events of their overthrow. He hadn't left out any details, graphically describing the deaths he had witnessed and each strike and blow he had landed with homicidal relish and distasteful glee. A small part of me- my stomach, namely- felt nauseous at this. And as it turned out, when the Lich Kel'Thuzad (the name ringing  _very_  distant bells in my mind from days gone by as an actual Death Knight) had died for the final time, the entire structure erupted and collapsed. Only by way of hasty mage-portal had they escaped to Dalaran.

"How many were left behind?"

"More than half that had entered that last chamber. The few who had expired or were too weak to continue onwards after that damned drake had been transported, but those in Kel'Thuzad's chamber were left, now buried beneath the Unholy remains laying in the fields of Lower Wintergarde." Wow, that sounded harsh.

"And…Ryndan…survived?" Truthfully when I had heard the Dawn/Crusade went forth my heart had constricted, but Luciya would have known about something like that and told me, I reassured myself. Even so, a nagging voice in the back of my mind argued that she may not have if I were already so fragile which I most certainly was not thank you very much. Tired, is what I am. I wasn't worried, no. I just…wanted…to know. Protests and excuses formed on my tongue in answer to Terowin's mocking risen eyebrow at my inquiry but died in my throat since I decided he wasn't worth it.

"Or whatever, if you don't want to tell me-"

"He survived. But has been suffering since from what I've heard." The derisive tone decorated each word as I could hear him laughing at me behind them. Terowin was of course unharmed and in perfect health…by Death Knight standards anyway. He had spoken of Naxxramas like a trip to the gardens or to market as opposed to what it was supposed to have been. Regardless, it hadn't stopped my flinch when he had first walked through my doors and momentary visions of Runeblades descending into my body flashed like the weird jerk you experience in your sleep. It had left me gasping and Terowin bemused.

A polite knock at the door interrupted my musings and not one, but two elves entered my chamber thus now totalling three. Lynara and to my surprise, Bart, welcomed themselves inside.

"Well now, if I thought I was going to be this popular I would have dressed up," I indicated to my oversized, over-worn and overly-brown jumper – and-woollen-leggings-combo courtesy a la Luciya and grubby turban. Lynara raised an eyebrow and Bart threw a half-smirk my way. Garbed in his traditional dark outfit, Bart contrasted strikingly to the pallidity of the shorter Lynara, who was dressed in a plain white robe. Like day and night almost, they were, with a gloomy, sickly fog murking behind them in the form of the greenish Terowin with his dark hair and sallow skin.

"I did not realise you had company-"Lynara started but was halted by giving a surprise study of the Death Knight Darksworn. He remained passive- or as passive as Terowin gets- with his usual hovering look of condescending amusement.

"Can I help you, priest?" he mocked, dripping sarcasm. "Never seen a Knight of the Lich King before? Are you impressed? Should I flex? Or are you surprised to see me so animate for an undead?" Lynara remained quiet, ignoring his rudeness and instead turned on the spot to observe me-  _very_  directly.

"Well. Well, well, well. That does explain a few things," her voice was quiet, perhaps even dangerously so. Nervously I shifted almost hearing the cogwheels turn.

"Hmm?" I ventured, dreading the answer.

Continuing on her observations she now turned her attentions to the slightly- taller Bart who met her gaze with equal curiosity. "Were you aware of her condition?" an ivory hand was waved in my general direction negligently.  _Charming_.

"If by 'condition' you mean status as a former death knight, then yes, I was aware." To have it said so openly and brazenly made me blanch and judder. Lynara wasn't supposed to  _know_!

I was thrown back to a miserable day when the testing of my potion had worked. Saving the human, dissolving the undead. A priest, confronting my ideals, my philosophies and motives. My plans. My fears. The tendrils. The fear. The worry that my work was for naught. The scuffle, the questioning, the confessions- a door flung wide open- the interruption _. Mort._

"I see. Well, I will have to alter my plan of attack in terms of your recovery then, but I shall do my best," her voice, clear and matter-of-fact, brought me back to be under the gazes of three people.

"Err, sorry about that. Couldn't tell you. Top secret, hush-hush and whatnot. You understand…" I hope. As I had felt before, despite our personality clashes in the past I did hold a great deal of respect for the priest and found her opinion of me to weigh quite highly among, dare I assume to say it,  _friends_  that had somehow gravitated my way since arriving in Northrend. Somehow, the thought of losing her good opinion once would be enough to lose it forever and my status as a death knight certainly counted highly among the list of things-to-end-friendships-and-shatter-relations in my mind.

"Quite." She turned to the two night elves. "You two know each other?" They regarded the other.

"You're the companion of the one with the sizable bust," Terowin indicated the rough measurements of Luciya's chest to Bart with his hands and a lewd grin who, to my surprise, did not rise to the derogatory statement but in fact reached out and altered the placement of Terowin's hands to the assumedly correct dimensions, nodded and said, "Yes, and you're the foul piece of dead meat scrapping after the Argent Crusade and picking up their mess." The faintest smirk ghosted across his face and I did a fair imitation of a fish.

Something akin to a sinister chuckle left Terowin's mouth and his hands flexed in such a way to mimic the feeling of an imaginary chest. "A lapdog, certainly, but only temporarily I assure you. Thank you for this," he indicated once more to the still-cupped hands and made his exit. The room became noticeably less suffocating at this and all attention turned back to me-  _wonderful_. Bart moved to look out of the window, crossing his arms in a bizarre mirror of the man who just left. Broodiness must be a night elf thing- or perhaps even a man thing, thinking of Ryndan in a similar stance once.

"A death knight." The words, quietly spoken and grating of my shaky nerves, hung in the air like an execution-worthy accusation. "It does explain why you survived so long in Naxxramas." Now seated beside me in Luciya's vacant chair sat the priestess. She looked unharmed, her skin still flawless and dress freshly-pressed. The only noticeable difference was now her hair was in a tail down her slender back and dark bags sat beneath her green eyes. Her long face, while never round to begin with, looked leaner and harder since I last lay eyes on the woman. I gave a non-committal answer, not wanting to talk about Naxxramas. My freshly-acquired scars were still aching as a result and I would rather not be reminded. Despite my best wishes, the topic wasn't to be laid to rest.

"This will make it more difficult. The Light, while certainly painful to the Scourge, is even worse the closer you are to Undeath, and you are borderline Forsaken."

"Borderline?"

"Mmm," she said distractedly, helping herself to pulling back my blankets and lifting my borrowed garments (I wore three- it was cold). Bandages and gauze rest atop my abdomen, shoulder and leg, stemming the neverending flow of blood. "Your stench isn't so unholy anymore, not unlike that damned soul who just left."

"Thanks a lot! That 'damned soul' helped you overthrow Naxxramas though, didn't he?"

"Indeed he did, a valuable asset, but it doesn't mean he doesn't give of a rotten aura. Naxxramas crushed me- crushed us all- with its bearing presence, but we could adjust to that as it was all around. Your death-knight friend would be moving around and entering in and out of my space, disrupting my concentration. I can't explain it, it's highly unpleasant and…and-"

"Contemptible. Abhorrent," Bart supplied from his survey out of the window. Lynara regarded him distantly.

"Yes, I think that would be accurate." She lingered her gaze before returning to her scrutiny of my body. I let her be, watching her work and examine. Bart did also via the window. He caught my eye.

"How are you?" was all he asked of my distant reflection.

How was I? I was recently released from hell, injured beyond physical capability, mentally pissed off at a man who had yet to come out of the shadows and face me on my own terms for the betrayal he had sentenced me on and I was bored out of my translucent skull with nought but a window-of-limited-view to entertain me between people. Since waking I could not sleep, despite the extra layers of clothes and blankets I was freezing and aching with cold. The weakness toiling my skeletal body irritated me for being an obstacle in the way of every-day things and I still couldn't keep anything bar  _water_  down in my stomach!

So naturally, I replied with "Fine. What about you?"

"Glad to be among the living again," his answer would not have seemed unusual to me if Lynara hadn't stopped in her task to throw Bart a fleeting glance of concern.

"That makes sense, I guess. Naxxramas didn't have the most lively of audiences!" My pitiful attempt of humour fell as flat as a board and the silence continued. My only answer was to fill it. "Oh! Have you seen Luciya? She said she left you a few weeks back, but she's back in Dalaran from whatever she was doing!" This was a good topic,  _surely_?

"I am aware of her presence here, yes." His tone ended the discussion on that, thank you very much. Not a good topic then. That left me with one last straw to tug at, please let this one be  _successful_.

"So…how did you two meet?" both of the older elves stared me down and awkwardly I laughed at their attention. "Oh." The clothes were tugged back into place and blankets tucked back around me.

"Master Bartheleus aided with your recovery from Naxxramas while I tended you as best I could. He delivered you here to Dalaran and upon my arrival- or soon after- I sought him out to find you. Your wounds have healed marginally since I last examined you in your coma, but I am displeased with your lack of wound care." Each word was pronounced precisely and perfectly as though each were a holy word memorised from one of her long-studied many priestly books. As such it held an air of authority, fact and not-to-be-argued-with and while previously that may have pissed me off, I found myself in odd admiration of her professionalism and swelled with a sudden warmth of gratitude.

"Thank you, for saving me- and for your concern. I realise I did nothing to deserve it, but it's appreciated anyway," my voice was meek, quiet and unlike my own.

"You are injured and in need of attention and that is all the deserving you require," a long hand found its way to my shoulder with a tight squeeze. Suddenly embarrassed I looked away and pulled my blankets up tighter. "I'll be right back, I wish to see a senior practitioner about these stitches." She upped and left quietly, her robes following her peacefully out of the door. Bart and I listened to the drizzle of the darkening night outside and the fading footsteps of the busied priest as she travelled the vacant hallway outside the door in companionable silence. I burned with curiosity to know about him and Luci- seeing as they were avoiding each other, but held my tongue after his last remark on the subject. If there was one shared quality between Bart and I, it was the appreciation for moments like this without feeling burdened by social graces. Due to this, I jumped when he addressed me.

"Prelate Dawnstrider is correct, you know. You are entitled to care and healing irregardless of your status as a former death knight."

"'Prelate Dawnstrider'? That's a mouthful and a half," I joked, too caught up in my new emotional state to receive his words. Luckily he sensed this and smirked.

"Indeed, more so than 'Master Lynara' but it is only polite and proper to address him with his professional title."

"Then surely it would be Mistress…Lynara?" I questioned uncertainly. Bart gave me a sharp look and looked to the wooden door as if expecting the very person we spoke about to stride back in, and then back to me.

"No, it would be  _Master_. He is a man."

My mouth wanted to refute this, but my mind said 'whoa, hang on a moment and evaluate'. Tiredly I listened- partially because I was too weak to put up a fight to my own logic and partially because Bart was staring at me with such concern that I might have to actually consider the possibility. Either that or he was playing a cruel joke that I did  _not_  find funny.

Lynara- surely a girl's name? She- he?-  _She_  was tall, lean…flat…chested… _well you're no Luciya yourself,_  my mind supplied. Yes, thank you for the unnecessary observation, but the point still stands. That's right, a woman can be flat-chested. Her hair was very long… _and so was Bart's_ …not a good example. Ah! She wore a dress!  _No_ , Cersae, that's standard priest garb for ceremonies- unadorned and simplistic with the sole purpose of warmth and wear. Um…her voice? It wasn't particularly girlish but nor was it the baritone of the night elf at the window., so no lead there… She acts like a woman! She's prissy and bossy and, and-  _clean!_ Oh, but she did hold you off with an unusual display of strength back at Venomspite before Mort barged in in the lab room…Dammit,  _which was it?!_ I looked back to Bart who had watched my internal war wage with the faintest of amusement.

"Are you… _sure_?"

"Very." The flat certainty in his voice made it difficult to argue.

I spent more time going through the arguments in my head, only to counter them. All-in-all I had no idea  _what_  Lynara was by the time she-he… _she_  returned. Finding herself under the scrutiny of us both she raised her eyebrows high in question.

"Bart says you're a man." I blurted before abashedly covering my mouth in horror at what I just implied. I actually felt  _years_  tick by before she chuckled at me.

"And indeed he is correct, I am of the male variety. You were unaware?" She set about folding an errant sheet at the foot of my bed, wholly unconcerned by the conversation… _as you…do…?_

I could only gape. She- he …I…."Oh Holy Light I do apologise. I thought you were a woman!" She –  _he_  smiled at me fully this time earning yet more shock from me and a curious look from Bart.

"Oh, well…I thought you were a woman when we first met. But can you blame me? You're  _really_  prissy and self-conscious about your dress sense and…well, you're  _pretty_!" To my satisfaction he looked a little embarrassed, glancing away from me before recovering swiftly. Ha,  _serves him right._

"Can a man not be those things also?" she- _he_  asked politely. Listening now, I could hear the low thrums that define a more masculine-than-feminine voice. His voice definitely wasn't baritone deep like Bart or severe and naturally authoritative like Ryndan's, but clear and calm.

"I…suppose so. I  _am_  sorry though- I'll try really hard to correct it in my head. You're not upset are you?" to my surprise- and Bart's going by his swift turn on the spot- Lynara laughed heartily. It was actually quite pleasant and she looked really pretty laughing, I decided.

"No, I take no issue with whichever you refer to me as. You are not the first and I doubt to be the last to confuse me- but I find no shame in being called a woman, it doesn't impact my actions or words whatever gender I am -or am  _not_ , in this case." She was still smiling- a much nicer expression that the one she usually used around me. I found I quite liked it.

"Your name sounds girly though."

"An unfortunate choice on my parents' behalf, I'm afraid. Like so many other names that start out as masculine, some, such as mine, tread the line between engendered and unisex. In more recent years it has developed to be feminine-sounding."

"Oh. Well. You're still a prissy princess to me."

"Dually noted," he said with another wide smile. "Now, down to business. I think I can heal you but I need to understand more about your physiology and make up before making leaps and bounds and injuring you with The Light, is this acceptable?" I nodded my agreement. "Good, now, I have perhaps less than an hour until the mass I must attend starts so I can give you that much time. Start from the beginning for me, how did you become a death knight?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- Don't panic I did not change Lynara's gender on a whim, he has always been male since his introduction if extremely effeminate sometimes. Androgynous-appearing to Cersae in the least, most around him notice his maleness or are soon corrected in one way or other after meeting him. The concept of Cersae not recognising this is to prove that she is in fact, not the most reliable or observant of narrators and that's already had grievous consequences even if she is unaware of them now. That and it was fun to construct a 3rd person gender-neutral narration back in Chapter Thirty- Jeopardy as a writing exercise. Lynara's swiftly become one of my most favoured characters since his inception (which was before I even published Cersae at Valgarde, I might add) and I look forward to including him more in the regular narration team in the future. For the meantime, Cers will still confuse his gender in her head until she is fully adjusted to it.
> 
> Jamais Vu- is the phenomenon of experiencing a situation that one recognises in some fashion, but that nonetheless seems very unfamiliar. Considered the opposite of Deja Vu.


	46. The Noose Tightens

The mahogany highlighted long-faded scars and creases as it gradually faded down each of his fingers. The wood polish stains weren't so prominent in his palm, but the scent of the finish burned his nose as he examined the hand. Each coffin carried held a different inscription, the designs engraved paying homage to the newly born Argent Crusade. Where black with white gilding would traditionally have present, or tabard lain with sword abreast it, now a white-and-gold theme dominated. The first, proper Crusade-honoured deaths. Even those from Valgarde and Wintergarde hadn't been afforded the luxury of a coffin before their cremation. They had merely been sent off with all the correct rites and prayers, just as the ones today had been. The ceremony was straightforward and clean.

And yet the wood polish still stained his hands filthy.

Some caskets had been empty. An honorary empty box for the missing fallen. How poetic-  _"allow us to burn some wood in your absence since this is all you can amount to,"_ he thought bitterly.

Highlord Fording graced the mass with his presence, the guild-hall-come-church decorated head to toe in banners, flowery arrangements, and candles- the scents of the latter two turning his empty stomach. The eulogies were long and sickening, the memorials short and bitter. Obituaries and traditions were observed in the wake of the mass-slaughter, including the names of Alliance, freelancers and even fallen Horde who had joined the raid. His Lordship had sombrely read each name, pausing between with a bowed, sorrowful face until the list had been shared to all attending.

"I pray The Light guide their souls to peace and rest," he had chanted.

"May The Light receive them forever more," most had responded. Ryndan's had been mechanical- hollow and quiet. Stone-faced had he sat through after carrying far too many comrades to lie next to each other for the last time before the bonfire had been lit. It would smoulder long into the night and forever in his mind.

Ryndan had left as soon as was polite to do so- noting others, including Ashwood and McGreaves, to do the same. The ceremony had done little to ease his heartache, nothing to spare his nightmares. The ghosts he saw were not laid to rest because of a few words. Despite his best wishes and intentions in showing support for his fallen subordinates, the fact still stood that Fording had abandoned them to Naxxramas on a fool's errand to set up shop outside the Wrathgate and yet there the very man stood, citing with the rest of them as if he had witnessed each death individually and personally bearing his sorrow publicly like a badge upon his chest. Flashes of anger hotly crossed his vision when he had first seen the Highlord this day. What a  _façade._

His locked shoulder ached grievously, and he ignored it. Initially denied the honour of bearing palls, he had fought and argued tooth and nail to be allowed. Only once five others had the casket lifted could he step under beneath each coffin to bear the weight of the fallen. The empty coffin bearing nothing more but Jason's name had felt particularly heavy. Determined strides now took him away from the finished funerals, each step impounding nothing but more fury as he walked. Only a firm hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks.

"Ryndan! You'll hurt yourself man, slow down." Lynara's voice drew him to a standstill and focussed on him. Prelate Lynara Dawnstrider of the Horde, prominent presence as the overthrow of Naxxramas and brother to Ryndan's brother-in-law by his second eldest sister. A comfort away from home, currently garbed in a plain, simple white robe as per custom of his Order, his hair was plaited down his back and a troubled look completed the ensemble. It was only after seeing him becoming soaked through did Ryndan even realise it was raining.

"A hard thing to witness, but it is done. Even those of whom we could not recover from the wreckage are blesséd in the afterlife."

Ryndan said nothing. He couldn't trust his tongue not to bite. This was a good man, a good priest, before him and he did not deserve Ryndan's foul mood. Evidently Lynara sensed this and sighed compassionately.

"Come, let us get a drink."

* * *

"It didn't even occur to me that I'd meet you out here, I would have written or contacted you prior. I should have known better- were you at Wintergarde?"

"Aye, out on that damned field day-in-day-out before-" A silence interrupted them, two elves each taking a moment to appreciate the contents of their goblets.

"Before Naxxramas, yes," the priest finished. "I was in talks with The Dawn as well, travelled over as an envoy."

"It's the Crusade now, the Dawn has  _evolved_."

"Oh, of course, I-"

"It's fine," Ryndan waved a hand nonchalantly, "I still mix it up even all these months down the line. In here," he tapped his temple, "it's still The Dawn, even if my crest now shines a different colour."

"Well spoken." Another draft was taken, each finding comfort in the liquids soothing their souls and stomachs.

"And what of you, my brother-by-brother-in-law? It's been a long time- last I heard you were stationed through The Great Portal?"

Lynara's face transformed a fraction, reminiscing of brighter and darker days gone past. Ryndan- hell, everyone- knew what had occurred, he was just curious if it was for the same reason that the priest before him left.

"I-yes, yes I was." Sharp eyes became fixated in a place over Ryndan's shoulder; looking at something far in the distant past. "In Shattrath- a beautiful city, even in its wrecked glory. I was with the children; the orphans- as you know, I believe." Ryndan nodded the affirmative, recalling Lynara explaining his new post some two years ago at their families' mutual wedding. It had sounded like brave and charitable work he was setting out to do, Ryndan couldn't help but feel envious of Lynara's excitement, having yet to feel such zealous enthusiasm in his own vocation. "But then the plague swept through. It claimed so…so many."

Witnessing an internal grief, Ryndan held his tongue, finding more interest in the confines of his alcohol than the shadowed face of the man opposite him. It was the least he could do, affording him this small privacy. It passed quick enough as Lynara continued. "I left there, ending back up in the Orc Capital and befriended the people I travel with currently- which is how I ended up here. From a whole other world, back to the lifeless desert and up onto the highest, coldest snows Azeroth has to offer…it's amazing how a physical body can survive so many changes," he ruminated with a strange detachment.

Amazing indeed…Ryndan had his own detachment to dangle from, hardly allowing himself the joys at something even as small as the closest thing to family he possessed in Northrend. It all held so little meaning to him right now. It wasn't the first and unlikely to be the last- if he lived to the end of this, he thought bitterly- Down Period that he suffered, recognising the usual pattern that followed exposure to great shock…and what a shock the Necropolis had been.

"Your efforts were appreciated, on both sides. Of Wintergarde, I mean." Lynara looked to him sharply.

"Truly?"

"Of course! Without your initial instigation for talks, who knows how long we would have lasted. I doubt that Wyrmbane would have even considered asking you for help until you arrived bearing Hope, it was good of you. What made you think of it?" A haze clouded over the priest's eyes briefly.

"It frustrates me, the- the warring, the fighting. In circumstances like that, when we were housed beneath the same Threat, then surely,  _surely_  peace and alliances should be preferable to refusal to ask for aid out of mere pride?" An exasperated desperation decorated his entire stance, Ryndan noting that this was a probable ongoing and rehearsed argument in his head judging by the way he spoke his words with little thought and hesitation. The priest had always been passionate for as long as Ryndan had known him, eager to spread goodwill and good deeds wherever he tread. A noble sentiment, but implausible. Too many preferred to butt heads over tiny details than see the broader picture. Even sitting in his mid-thirties, a scant decade older than Ryndan, Lynara had yet to reach this conclusion. Even so he allowed Lynara his innocent dreams, who was he, a bitter paladin, to tell him otherwise?

"You speak the truth, Lynara. The Light knows that's why some of us join the Dawn, Cenarion forces and elsewhere; to escape the political feuding." Ryndan drained the last dregs and signalled for a refill. "I just don't think what you envision will occur soon, if in our lifetimes anyway. Too many on both sides of this are bloodthirsty and war-hungry. Either is bad on its own but with a combination of both, that'll take some sating and slaking."

"'What I envision'?"

"A Unified Azeroth; no bloodshed, no war, just peace treaties and trade routes."

"Do not mock me, Ryndan," he chastised. "I can see it in your words that you also tire of the same pointless arguments. It is not too much to dream of a world run with diplomacy and consideration. A world where children are not left parentless, only to die in their dirty floor-mattresses because medicine is unobtainable or they are forgotten about. A world where food is given to the hungry and shelter to the cold. I received a calling to The Light for a reason, and if helping even one person from both factions talk amicably where they previously could not is my one role while I walk this world, then so be it."

The man was so devout, so passionate in his speech that Ryndan could not even tease him a little on that score. Accepting his refill, he instead raised his chalice to him to weary to contend with his fantastic ideals.

"I wish you all the luck, patience and goodwill in the world and more, my friend. May you find solace in your lifework." Silence joined the pair once more, offering a cold comfort to their nerves. Death had that effect on him, he had noticed. For an age after undergoing something so…brutal, Ryndan tended to leave the world spiritually for a while until ready to return.

Some men, he had seen, let out their grief, anguish and horror in physical ways; brawling, training, running, sparring-  _anything_  to stimulate the body rather than the mind in a distraction from their troubles. He had bypassed the barracks set aside for the Crusade in boredom only that morning and found an aggressive and destructive Corporal Danila lashing into the already-battered target dummies. The sweat teeming from him, as well as the tell-tale signs of blood and injury, were indication enough of how long he had been beating himself bloody. Even from his fair distance away, Ryndan could hear the gasping breaths cursing the young draenei's survival, questioning why it was his friend that had died and not him. The cold sun looked down sadly upon the exhausted form, his punches and throws causing more harm than good, and cast a pathetic shadow against the courtyard. With small surprise had the superior seen a hunched over form that identified as Edrikson nearby, his head cradled in just as bloodied hands, bandages and stitches burst and broken. With a grimace had Ryndan left them to their grief, unable to placate it.

A small, select few, like himself, went in the opposite direction. They went inwards, curling into a small, mental ball of themselves in a dusty corner of their mind. The corner was usually dark, uncomfortable and all sharp-edges i.e. not somewhere you would like to visit often. Each sojourn to that weary part of his mind was filled with heavy footsteps, a trail of blood behind him as he approached it, sinking to the unseen floor before leaning another shade of a bruised soul against the wall.

He'd stay there for hours, days and weeks- three weeks he had been there once, not really dealing outwardly with any of his trauma, merely retreating internally until he felt ready to come back out and function normally- like a living being. During that time he would be an automaton, running drills, saying empty prayers, tossing bitter oaths and questioning his use in The Dawn. But with each return to that dire place, he would recall the new shadows that hung over him like some sort of ghastly mobile. Dark thoughts would sometimes keep him company whispering horrors and terrors of failure and guilt.

"Would you Resurrect the children, if you could?" The words left Ryndan's mouth and it wasn't until Lynara's startled look knocked him back to reality did the paladin realise what had crossed his lips. Too late to take them back, he supposed.

"What a question to ask; you know Resurrection is grievous and unlawful, Ryndan," he berated.

"If it wasn't illegal, though. Say there were…parameters to it?"

" _Parameters_? By The Light, your drink must be going straight to your head. I didn't mean unlawful to us mortals; it is unlawful to Nature! In answer to your question, no, I would not raise them. The dead, Light bless them, should  _remain dead_ …no matter how tragic their demise or how- how personal the grief is," he finished quietly, clearly wishing to state the complete opposite but remaining on the side of cruel, unanswerable logic.

"Forgive me, an impertinent and …personal question. Of course I know, it was just hypothetical- the slightly-drunk ramblings of a mentally scarred man." Another salute to him with the goblet and Ryndan proceeded to down the rest of his wine. A satisfied noise of appreciation left his throat as he sat the container back on the table top. Another refill was called for. "So, that must mean you have some rather conflicted views on our Undead allies?" he ventured, wishing to stray away from the awkwardness.

"Indeed. While personally and one-on-one I have no issue with most of them, even if they disregard personal hygiene and decent clothes, as a race I find them a bitter pill to swallow."

"My, my what is this? Segregation? From a Priest?"

"Ryndan, you mock me again, don't be a fool. I have no personal prejudice with them but even you must acknowledge their – their  _unnaturality,_  if you will.  _They were never meant to exist._ It's like-"

"Well, by your reckoning, you and I should not be here seeing as we also descend from a race that broke from the norm."

"That is different- our physiology has not altered, just our…our…our needs to survival. If we were to mate with the Highborne then the children produced would be of the same race as both parents, not of mixed breed, but you throw me off topic-!"

"'Mate with the Highborne?' Would you do that? But I thought you-"

"I am, as I was when we first met and even now, so no, I would not mate with a woman with the intentions of reproduction or otherwise, but again, you make me digress! The Forsaken have come about unnaturally _however,_  I am willing to concede to their existence on Azeroth as they are here now and so have a right to Race Preservation as much as any of us do. It's one of many grey areas in the large, multi-dimensional Moral Compass that we all try to follow and abide by, I'm afraid- and there probably is no ultimately correct answer."

"And the Scourge? Do they not fall under the same category?"

The look the paladin received might have otherwise made him laugh under any other circumstances given the preposterous expression covering it. "Most assuredly  _not_ , sir. They have no known cognisance of their own to speak of, merely …simple puppets crafted from dead flesh."

Ryndan opened his mouth to refute this, thinking of the poor bastard that resides- or resided, he wasn't sure- below Wintergarde, but decided against it, not wishing to add the the Priest's already swamped emotional, theological turmoil. He instead chose to take a long draft from his fresh goblet of wine.

"Cersae's an interesting case though," he stated almost lyrically. Ryndan nearly used the man for target practice with his wine. He brought up the subject innocently. Almost  _too_  innocently.

 _Cersae_. He hadn't thought about her since seeing her in the Military Quarter- that had been nearly a week ago. His grief had overwhelmed him and now to be reminded of her and of Naxxramas brought a bitter taste to his mouth. He swallowed more wine. It did not wash out the taste.

"She has nothing to do with the Crusade anymore. She is Walden's responsibility."

"Is that so? He's the undead man that followed her about, isn't he? I was unaware that she was his ward. They have not been in contact since her return." Ryndan knew that Lynara left the statement open-ended deliberately. And he would not cave into the squinting curiosity. He would not play the priest's games…

"Why?"

"Who knows? Last I saw them together was at Venomspite. She and I were ah,  _discussing_  The Plague and her intentions and he burst into the room demanding to see her. Dragged her out by arm and foot ignoring her protests- probably for the best he interrupted then, she and I weren't seeing eye to eye. Come next day, she was apparently in Naxxramas of her own volition by Baron Walden's report. Two days later was the battle at Lower Wintergarde." The tone was nonchalant and clearly designed to irritate him.

"You know about The Plague?" The Plague. Vrykul. Alchemy. Cersae. Her back as she walked away against the moonlight…

"Mmm. Do you know I peered into her mind? Fascinating stuff." Very deliberately did Lynara draw heavily from his goblet, the aloofness he held getting on Ryndan's nerves as they both knew how he was being played like a puppet to Lynara's directions. "It made me very uncomfortable when I heard the apothecaries speak of revenge, and in the form of a plague, no doubt, but Cersae saw to that."

"What?"

"Revenge- This particular sect of the Royal Apothecary Society deem themselves  _The Hand of Vengeance_. Very typical, run-of-the-mill Undead angst and hatred-towards-the-living. A bit on the extreme side though what with the dishing out of mass death they had planned."

"No, not that. What do you mean she 'saw to that'?"

"Hmm? Oh the plague!"

"Yes, the plague!"

"Well she fixed a serum that didn't affect humans- or living tissue- but instead dissolved an unfortunate Forsaken apothecary into a gruesomely messy puddle in an instant."

She'd done it. She'd actually done it. She hadn't betrayed them after all!

"I can see from your face that this news pleases you?"

"It does indeed! This is-  _wait_." He leaned forward, the wine clouding his thought process but not enough to hinder him. "The Vrykul. We obtained a sample and reverse-engineered it, it destroyed a  _full-grown Vrykul_ , Lynara." His expression grew dark.

"Mmm, ah yes. She and I – on our first quest together, actually, were ordered to retrieve blood of Vrykul. She appears to have altered the serum to be used against them only. Don't ask me how," he threw his hands in the air, "because I have no idea. My knowledge on potioneering and elixir-crafting is minimal. Either way, it had been tested at Halgrind successfully. Now it has passed its second test and entered mass production. There's no going back now."

Ryndan mused silently, absorbing the details. It dissolved undead flesh. It brutally obliterated Vrykul beings. It was safe to the living. She had actually done it. As smoke on the water, his anger towards her dissipated with the realisations. The large weight marked 'betrayal' morphed into 'guilt' and was placed on his side of the scales. He owed her an apology and more.

"She's really gotten under your skin, hasn't she?" Lynara smirked from across the table.

"Don't do that, it's not attractive."

"My know-it-all smile? But Ryndan, allow me to revel in this, even just a little?"

"No, she hasn't- to answer your question. But how did you know to tell me about her? Her involvement with the Crusade was supposed to be secret."

"She asked me about you, more specifically if you had survived. Awfully worried, she seemed."

Pointedly ignoring the amused tone, Ryndan's curiosity yet again got the better of him, his partially inebriated state now taking the reins. "You've seen her?"

"Naturally. I followed her to the portal with Master Bartheleus and tended her. Not only that, I know her personally, it seemed fitting I treat her. She resides in a rather abandoned part of the hospital you should be resting in."

His wine called for more attention, and Ryndan lifted his goblet to comply. "'Treat her' how?"

"This won't be new information to you, I assume, but she is a Death Knight, not Forsaken." Ryndan paused in his imbibing to gauge Lynara's reaction. Stoic, neutral. He didn't appear to be judgemental about it.  _Proceed cautiously_ , his reflexes informed him.

"Yes, she is. Did she tell you this?"

"No, as a matter of fact. I found out by comparing her side-by-side with your Death Knight  _pet_."

" _Terowin_? By The Light what eclectic company you keep these days!"

"I thought so," a look of distaste passed over his pale face. Ryndan wasn't surprised, Terowin wasn't the best company to be around even for a short period of time. "Yes, it had been nagging me, the weirdness surrounding her, but mystery solved it seems. It seems to explain a great deal. Do you know she mistook me for female?"

Ryndan raised his eyebrows high in wonder. "This comes as a surprise to you? Hell, I was confused at first- I even asked you to dance at the wedding if you recall. I thought you were his sister and had done so for the few months prior!"

Lynara laughed heartily. "Yes, I remember. I turned you down, noting that while I may appreciate my partner, you might not."

"You're too lean and skinny, that's what confuses people. And too fair of face."

The blond sighed dramatically, draping one long hand across his cheek. "Oh, what's a poor priest to do? All these men to fawn over me and none to sweep me off of my feet!" They chuckled. Open and honest in all aspects of his life, it was one of the many qualities that made Ryndan instantly take with the elf opposite him. He had been upfront in his romantic preferences, allowing Ryndan the chance to leave politely as his discretion if uncomfortable. Taken aback by the sincerity in Lynara's gesture, Ryndan had assured him that he thought nothing of it and offered him a drink instead. The wedding had been a good night and he recalled it fondly, noting how happy his next-oldest sister had been in her bridal gown.

"I find that I may even have the time to write to them now." He indicated to his bound arm. "Luckily it was not my writing hand otherwise it would have been postponed further."

"Why not contract a scribe to compile it? Or I? You dictate and I would note it."

"A generous offer which I thank you for but it wouldn't work- your writing is undoubtedly neater than my own and it would give my family false hopes that my calligraphy had improved." He laughed. "My letters have been few and short and I fear not only my mother, but my younger siblings will chastise me something rotten when I return."

Lynara laughed. "Ah yes, do not go disappointing your sisters, a woman's wrath is a dreadful thing or so I am told." His eyes twinkled merrily, the dark weight that had been resting on their conversation moved and displaced for happier thoughts. "I did receive a letter from my brother shortly before entering the necropolis, however. It appears you and I are to be uncles in the near future."

This time Ryndan  _did_  use Lynara as target practice and thankfully mostly missed. Ignoring the spilled wine, he simply gaped across the table. "Truly? Myrella is with child? Oh, this is good news! This is of the best news! Uncle Ryndan and Uncle Lynara, what a title for us both to bear!"

Lynara mopped up what little wine had reached him from Ryndan's mouth and grinned in response. "Second only to 'Father' I would imagine!" While Ryndan never took for granted that he may one day marry and bear children, there was a sad acceptance in Lynara's voice that seeped through the paladin's elated mood and pained him slightly. Given his preference for men, the priest would unlikely ever father children and Ryndan thought that to be a damn shame.

"You will make a wonderful uncle, to all nieces and nephews that come your way," Ryndan smiled to him and called for a very expensive brand of drink from the near-empty bar. "Bring only the best- we have much to celebrate this eve!"

They talked long into the night, discussing the possibility of a girl, a boy or both and each determined to prove themselves to be the better uncle. By midnight, the bottle of wine (a good year, according to Ryndan) had been consumed, Lynara proved to be the more sensible and sober and deposited Ryndan back at his ward. Ryndan was not to remember his nightmares this night thanks to how much wine he had consumed, one small mercy Lynara allowed him before directing the healers of his care that he was not to imbibe any more alcohol for the foreseeable future. Without that and his dreamless-sleep formula, Ryndan would have to face his source of grief head on and it pained Lynara to force him so. With a heavy heart the blond man retired to face his own demons.

* * *

The door clicked, arousing me from whatever pathetic form of dozing I had fallen into and announcing a new presence in my room that had previously been as yet unoccupied apart from myself. I found the new visitorcasually lounging in the high-back chair as if he owned it, gleaming at me intently from beneath his flop of dank hair. A smirk stretched across his tight, off-colour face. It was  _not_  a most welcome sight. I decided to start the half-expected meeting on my terms.

"What a surprise. If I had known you were coming, I would have locked the door and barred it. Perhaps even set a trap or two."

"Like that would have stopped me," Mort answered silkily. True enough, he would have still entered, the lock a mere nuisance to his skilled hands.

"To what do I owe your unpleasant presence?" I spat. Thoughts ran at high speed. Everyone else was attending the funeral mass. Terowin was off at the smithies repairing his blade. Luciya was sleeping ahead of a late night working- she had been by only that morning... So I found that I was left alone with  _him_ , who had not divested of his two visible daggers, never mind what else he had hidden away elsewhere on his person, and that I was  _extremely_  vulnerable. Even so I masked my edging fright with snide remarks. The rain was beating heavily outside, so much so that no one would hear me even if I screamed my hardest. To my knowledge, this wing was mostly emptied due to faulty plumbing and lack of heating which had made it perfect for me, or so they had thought. Never once did my carers assume me to be in danger- not that I had given them reason to. While some part of me expected a visit from him after our last departure, I had not anticipated it to be on such uneven grounds. I laughed internally at my thoughts of confrontation and demanding compensation from before- they wouldn't be happening  _today_ , not when he had that sinister look in those yellow eyes. I felt momentarily like mouse suddenly finding –not a cat- but a vulture bearing down on me. A scarred, veteran vulture who was fetish was terrorising its prey before swooping in mercilessly.

"You and I need to chat, little girl. I have kept a close watch on you since my return from Naxxramas-"

"Which is an unfortunate occurrence, might I add, your survival."

 _"-And I think it's best_  we iron out some wrinkles, don't you?" My interruption had upset him enough to add a sharp edge to his continuation, and I realised I was treading on dangerous ground. Oh well, in for a copper coin, in for a gold.

"To what are you referring,  _Baron Walden_? Surely not the betrayal of your own ward to the knights governing Naxxramas? I thought that was done and done with on the cold fields that day when you left me for  _dead."_

"Dead? No, I had not left you for dead.  _Bait_ , yes, but only in a way that you should be inducted back into their ranks. While I had briefly entertained the idea of their discarding you, I didn't believe they would  _do_  it. How happy they should have been to have such a fine recruit back in their arms and ranks- The Hacker no less! What on earth did you do to piss them off so?" So far, the topic steered around what we needed to discuss, dancing on the edge of the fire and I found myself waiting to be tripped up into it, ready to be set ablaze. Even so, his question did still stand.

What had I done indeed? The slaughtering of a Knight-Lieutenant on the field of Light's Hope Chapel was number one on the transgressions list, followed by (openly) siding with The Argent Crusade and aiding with their (not –so-quiet) advancement into Northrend. Oh, and not to mention my involvement in the destruction of Halgrind and my refusal to divulge exactly  _how_  I had accomplished  _that_  particular feat. Oh yes, apparently my deeds had not gone unnoticed by my former employers. Spitting in their faces when I was held in Naxxramas didn't do me any favours either, I recalled. No, they used me for target practice and sexual satiating and more – something of which I did not reveal to anyone, though Terowin only guessed no doubt through his own experiences on being on the  _dealing_  end of such a punishment.

"Got in their way, probably." I threw at him, trying to stay as cool as possible. His presence irked and disturbed me, neither feelings of which I was equipped to deal with as of now given my weakened state- something that Mort was all too keenly aware of. His eyes never wandered around the room, determined to stay fixated on my bedridden form to add to my overall discomfort and growing distress. He remained silent for what felt to be an improbably long period of time before answering. My nerves were frazzled.

"I see. Well, let us prevent that from happened with you and I, yes? I doubt you would like me when made an enemy of." he leaned forward, bones creaking and chair groaning, as he leered at me. "And I have many methods of getting my own way."

"Oh,  _do_  go on, please."

"What do you recall of that day at Venomspite?" Crisp, sharp and to the point much like the knives ensconced in their small sheaths. The ones I was hyperaware of. The ones he  _knew_  I was hyperaware of.

"Enough."

"Elaborate."

 _No._  The word nearly slipped from my mouth- and he expected it to. At some point during the tete-a-tete one of the dreaded daggers had been drawn from its bed, hidden in the shadows of his clothes but slyly winking at me with a glint from the lamplight. He expects me to resist  _hard_ , and was not too concerned about coercing my cooperation. I didn't know when the funeral mass would end and so didn't know if anyone would be forthcoming any time soon to save me, or to what lengths Mort would go to to extract this sensitive information. An uncomfortable feeling inside me knew that Mort wouldn't be here if he didn't already know we would be undisturbed for some time. Shite.

My eyes met his menacing yellow ones and he knew I had seen his weapon. Not subtly hiding it anymore, he drew it out into the full light, the crooked form of the blade akin to a kukri I had once seen within the armouries at Venomspite. This one however was much crueller looking than the dull one from back then. A nasty looking blade by all means, razor sharp on one edge, a keen point and a serrated hind edge made it a formidable and fearful weapon. Not only would it be agony going  _in_ , it would be hell coming back  _out_ \- and not without some measure of skin, muscle and organs attached if angled right. Not only could it disembowel in minimal swift movements, but it could slice cleaner through bone than the sharpest guillotine could- and with only a fraction of the force. And it had a twin which was nestled at his waist – I hoped. I had not seen it as of yet but I knew it was on him, I just prayed it was tucked away. I barely kept my cool in front of one naked weapon, never mind two.

Even without prior knowledge of his blade's history and formidability, my stance was clear-cut and pitiful. I had no escape and was unsure as if his  _persuasion_  could physically end my life at this point or just make it excruciatingly worse if not irreparable. Eternal pain and agony didn't sound too inviting and I found that I didn't want to know the answer to that theory, instead opting for a full-on detailed account. He knows how I lie, the tell-tale signs I would undoubtedly adopt poorly masked by my fragile state. He had me cornered and  _cornered good_. Kicking me while I was down, so to speak. But a part of me wondered if I couldn't turn this on him…so I divulged everything from that morning.

 _"_ The Scourge _don't feel as bad as you. The Undead do not feel like you. And you cannot be either of those. I know this for a fact because not a single Forsaken has been made in the time since Arthas turned the poor wretches initially, and Cersae, the Forsaken were not born three years ago when you died." Lynara's voice was cutting through my haze, my view only tinged with red as I realised how close she had been to closing in on my secret. I felt the strength gathering, pooling in my abdomen getting ready to strike. In a swift movement did I disengage her arms from me and throw her to the floor. Crushing my knees on her chest, I kept her- no,_ him _,_ In hindsight I could see it now _, down gasping for breath. My hands reached for his scarf, aching to throttle the last bit of life from him. I could have done it- would have done it- if not for the searing pain that tackled me straight in the chest. Thrown into a workbench, phials and bottles scattered and shattered, the shards surrounding me as I regained my stance. A glance over my shoulder told me of his recovery. His breathing was heavy and face dark- a hand outstretched in my direction. My collar seared with burning as the flesh knitted itself together once more. He wielded The Light, and I was relying on reflex and a weakened stature. My hand found a ragged piece of glass and I knew it had to be introduced to his throat. A pulse began to beat on my brain._

_He was speaking to me in low tones, warning me to remain calm and collected and assuring me that he wouldn't harm me unless in self-defence. I smirked, my wound nearly closed, the aftershock of The Light nearly worn off and the pulse beating faster. My grip tightened around the shard, cutting my own skin and I was stationed to make my move before an intruder interrupted us by loudly crashing the door open. Snarling at him, Mort met my gaze steadily before flitting to Lynara._

_"I have to speak with her," and he grabbed my arm, dragging me through the doorway and out of the building. The change in sudden light- from a dingy work room to the blinding snow outside drew a hiss from me and I stumbled in his grasp. On and on he pulled me, out of Venomspite and through a secluded valley nestled between two cliffs. We ended up at the edge of Lower Wintergarde before he dropped my arm._

_"Are you insane?! Was it on your to-do list to murder someone today or was it on a fanciful whim? If you require blood to be spilled to sate you then I suggest heading down_ there _for a bout or two!" A skeletal arm was flung downwards, pointing to the swarm of mindless corpses zombie-ing about the place. Glowering, I remained silent, fully aware of the broken glass still nestled in my hand. "You stupid girl! Your position is already precarious without adding an unwarranted and suspicious death to your list of accomplishments."_

_Not yet anywhere near calm enough to answer, I waited and watched, fully intent with pushing him off the cliff to grant me the satisfaction of revenge for interrupting me if it came to that. He was not unaware of my feelings and glared at me from his greater height._

_"Don't even think about it, girl. You are already on thin ice with me after that stunt you pulled back in New Agamand and now- now the Society have caught wind of your subterfuge. Do you realise what this means?!"_

_Being thrown off kilter allowed me speech- "They know? How?!"_

_"How do you think? Your discussion with your_ friend _back there wasn't exactly as private as you hoped and a lesser apothecary went to tattle on you before I intercepted him. The rats should be finished with his corpse before nightfall. But there's still mutterings. Inconsistencies and issues are arising with your potions and they're beginning to suspect not a badly made batch or miscopied formula - but a deliberately faulty one. You've been found out, my girl, and it's your own damned fault for not confiding in me."_

_I snorted. "What would you have me do? You don't understand my alchemy anyway and I would have ended up distributing the same recipe and instructions regardless!"_

_"I could have helped keep the concerns quietened down! If I had known beforehand that there was going to be a problem with the plague then I could have been prepared! As it stands there are two apothecaries at least that suspect you and those suspicions won't lay still. You've built your own gallows with this one and soon you'll be forced to walk off them."_

_I contemplated his words, wary that he was right. Lynara and I hadn't been quiet when we spoke and despite my own intentions to end him- though for an entirely unrelated reason- there could have been others cautious of my work. After all, I swooped in and solved their conundrum in a manner of a few weeks- something their best and brightest had been working on since before arriving on the shores of Northrend. Naively I had ignored the worries regarding my quick ascension in the ranks and focussed entirely on pushing the plague out to secure my freedom. If Mort's words were true, then I had in fact, sealed my imprisonment further, now more closely monitored than ever._

_"So what do we do now? Do I confront them about it? Attempt to lie through my teeth until I'm blue in the face or until they're convinced?"_

_"Neither- I don't think that will work. You've dug a rather large and deep hole with little to no regards as to how to climb back out. The only way for you to go now is down."_

_"I don't understand."_

_"You have to leave Venomspite."_

_His words caught me by surprise and I laughed to the sky. "And go where exactly? The Crusade aren't exactly in the market for renegade plague-making death knights and Luciya said she has information regarding Edmund that I need! I need to stay here and complete this so I can go back to them successfully and tell them they are no longer in any danger! That's the only way I can get back to Luciya!"_

_"I'm afraid your quest for Edmund needs to be put on hold."_

_"What?! No! That's why I am here, Mort! To find him!" My arms gestured wildly and uncontrollably in my rage, I was beyond pissed off now and my emotions boiled past the point of tumultuous._

_"I can't let you go just yet. I have another task for you."_

_I scoffed, unable to believe what I was hearing. "Are you serious? You can't 'let me go'? I am not your pet! After being forced to help you in this damned mess you expect me to do something else for you? Are you out of your maggot-infested mind? I have a purpose here and I intend to see it through."_

_"Hear me out- it will help Edmund."_

_"What? What will? How?!" Only later in my squalid gaol cell did I realise I had fallen for the bait._

_"You are a death knight."_

_"Oh, well noticed," I sneered, "what tipped you off? Was it when we first met, the occasional blue eyes, Endless Hunger or me going 'Hey, I'm a death knight' every other day?"_

_"You are a death knight," he continued ignoring my outburst, "and you have certain uses as one."_

_"Do I really? Because so far it's been nothing but a pain in the ass to me and everyone around me. In fact, haven't we been trying to_ hide _that particular piece of information?"_

_"You do- you can do the one thing that no one on either side of this mountain can. You can infiltrate Naxxramas."_

_"Infil-infiltrate Naxxramas." I stared at him dumbly, waiting for the punchline. "You're shitting me, aren't you? You are actually screwing with me right now. You want me, a defector- to the_ Crusade _, I might add by the way, which is as about as anti Naxxramas as you can_  get _\- to waltz into there and do what, exactly? Link arms and dance? Run errands for them until I'm back in their good graces? I don't bloody think so!"_

_"Whether you like it or not, you are a death knight and there is more to this war than you or your paramour. Now Edmund made his way here and sought out Naxxramas, given how long ago he was in Dalaran before setting off to Icecrown it's very possible that he found the necropolis-"_

_"Whoa, you stop_ right there _. What do you mean 'how long ago he was in Dalaran? What do you know?"_

_Mort contemplated me silently, clearly judging if I was worthy of whatever information he had to depart. "I know when Edmund arrived and the route he took. He arrived in Valgarde and stayed a month before setting off to Westguard. From there he ventured to Wintergarde and forwarded to Dalaran. He arrived there a few months before you set foot on Northrend. According to the logs, he departed from Dalaran after staying there only two weeks or so. He indicated that his destination was Icecrown via the Storm Peaks in the north east. According to one of the guides who took him through the Peaks, Edmund descended into Icecrown via a passageway in the very northwest of the mountains. That was four months ago. It is very likely he made it into Naxxramas, Cersae, in his bid to find you. He could be there."_

_Staring was all I could do. The words swirled in my head over and over. No matter the order I placed them in, they didn't make sense. There was one thing crying out in this madness that I didn't want the answer to. "But if he's in Naxxramas, then he's either dead or a death knight."_

_"Correct on both fronts, and sad either way, but you would know, at least, his fate."_

_"I- I don't understand how you know this."_

_"I have people- a small network, if you will, who will privately work for me as well as the Society. There are annals- records, of each individual who passes through the towns. They note their arrival and departure- as well as the dates- and indicate where they are going. It is to help forward mail and the like when arriving in Northrend in major ports such as Valgarde, Vengeance landing, Warsong Hold etc… we managed to track down Edmund's last known whereabouts."_

_"How…" I stumbled over my words, feeling increasingly dizzy by the minute. "How long have you_ known _?"_

" _Long enough for me to use it now as leverage. We need eyes and ears in Naxxramas, Cersae. And you are in prime position to-" his speech was cut short by my shard of glass swiping at his face. Missing his jaw, I caught his neck instead amidst his reflexes._

 _"You son of a bitch! You – You fucking_ bastard _! All this time!_ All this time! _You_ knew _!" Each accusation was accompanied with stab or swipe of my crude weapon. He artfully dodged and at this point, I didn't care. It wasn't until I caught his leather jerkin did he intercede and catch my arms. Shakily I struggled, still weak from the Holy Light inflicted on my by Lynara some half-hour ago._

_"Of course I knew! A subject like him doesn't go wandering off without being followed and tracked!"_

_"What do you mean-' subject'?!" My flailing was for nought as he held my back flush to his ribs, my arms locked in his skeletal hands._

_"He is a prime target for the Society and always has been. For years we watched him after he came to us, spouting zealous nonsense about revenge against the Scourge and we realised what a fanatic we had on our hands. He did all of our bidding- even sneaking to Stormwind for rare texts and librams long since lost to the city of Lordaeron. He was a capable spy and he was going to go further upon his final return- except he brought_ you _back with him from the Alliance capital!"_

_I didn't question his motives in telling me, for he always had a reason to divulge information, so instead I waited for the climax of this story, not even sure if it was true or not. I had since given up fighting and instead stared out at the sea of scourge below us while listening. There was a loud pounding in my ears._

_"You were a curious specimen, gifted, yes, and talented in alchemy despite your age. So we waited, watched. He was your mentor and we knew we would be losing a valuable alchemist in him soon so we let him train you up to be a replacement, postponing the plan for a few months."_

_"What do you mean 'lose him'?"_

_"He was marked for infiltration back when Naxxramas haunted the Plaguelands- before heading to Stormwind; he was informed that he would be taking part in the Death Knight induction and becoming a spy for us. We needed to know what we were facing, and he was on the list of recruits for that job. Before he met you, he had no problem with it. He was eager to go, anything to down the Scourge, but you,_ you _brought him to his senses somehow and he backpedalled on the plan. He said he wasn't interested anymore and to find someone else. He begged, pleaded to stay- even offering to double his current workload to make up for it, but he was hellbent on staying near you. So they accepted his pleas to his face, but behind his back they set a trap, a trap to Turn him."_

 _"The warlock," I breathed. The warlock who had turned me. The warlock, with terrible conviction and pleasure , had crushed my soul and body, turning me into one of them, one of those_ monsters _._

 _"Yes, the warlock. You_ stupidly _caught wind of him being in danger and set off to warn him…only to end up in the trap yourself."_

 _It had been for Edmund. He was supposed to be Turned that day, not I. It was_ he _who was supposed to be standing here- or worse, lying dead at fields of Light's Hope Chapel. Would he have survived that battle if our positions reversed? I was unsure- my own account of the battle had been short, chasing after a runaway soldier off the field, only to come to my senses when Arthas had fled. And that's when I had awoken in myself._

_My knees crumbled. Retching what little bile I held in my stomach, I stained the snow and stared blankly. Mort had known, all this time, that Edmund was driven on death, even before he had met me, and he hadn't stopped him. If it were Edmund in Naxxramas, in Acherus or elsewhere, blue-tinted eyes and cold demeanour, would I have trekked across the world to find and save him as he was me?_

_The answer was yes, I would have. I am doing. I will do._

_"And you think he's in there now?" I whispered to the morbid form at my back. Truly, I shivered with the idea that this man- this Forsaken- knew of the intent to capture Edmund and Turn him and his only concern was that the wrong person had been caught._

_"Yes, it's very likely."_

_But there was one problem._

_"I don't believe you."_

_"What?"_

_"I don't believe you," I repeated. His boots came into view as he circled around me like a cat and his prey._

_"Pray tell, why you have cause to disbelieve me?"_

_"Because you're a liar. You're a liar, a thief, a murderer and a schemer. You're a rogue of the worst sorts and won't resort to dirty tricks to get your way." I looked him square in the eyes, he was now squatting in front of me with a vague amusement and confidence that only someone of superior skill and authority could adopt. He knew that he could take me in my weakened state, and did not feel threatened by me. His daggers were still sheathed- not that that counted for much._

_"All of the above, true, I'm gracious enough to admit, but what makes you think that this in particular is a lie?"_

_"Because you've not mentioned it before. If you had, you would have told me as soon as we stepped on Northrend. As soon as possible so I would race to Naxxramas to find him. To do your bidding." I stood up; my robes sodden from kneeling in the snow from the knees down, hindering my slight movements. "You have sought to manipulate me from the start- you didn't even want me to go to Northrend. Why? In case I put two and two together and came up with your sorry excuse for a plan? But I did come to Northrend- and under Crusade colours at that. I was out of your sight, out of your control. You needed me back before I remembered. That's why you stole me away that night, not to help with the plague, but to puppet me again. Since Edmund couldn't do your bidding, too far gone in his quest you turned your sights back to me, the convenient death knight whose apparent memory loss was a perfect enough medium for you to steer and direct."_

_"Well said. You are missing a vital point though," he drawled, slowly clapping his gloved hands in mockery._

_"I do hold the monopoly on your survival. I_ have _been ordered to dispatch you at my convenience. I wasn't telling the whole truth about the apothecaries- they've all caught wind of your experiments, the show in the courtyard with the Scarlet prisoner merely proved that and then you got caught with the priest sniffing out your intentions. So either way, Little Girl, you are going to go into Naxxramas to find your dearly beloved in one state or another, or you are going to perish by my blade here and now. I would so hate to have to end you, getting another in your kind of position will be difficult, but if I am left with no choice… I have no lingering attachments for you, they ended when you became a dog of the Lich King, intended or not. You are worse than scum, and worse than the lowest Forsaken. Why do you think we didn't deign one of our own to be a spy and chose Edmund instead? Because he was stupid enough to choose that non-life initially. Idiot humans, they would do anything for sentiment. So which is it- Undeath or death?"_

_The Twin Blades were drawn in a deliberately slow act as he advanced on me. The icy coil from my earlier skirmish wormed its way and filled my body with the ancient reflex of fight or flight- only for me it was magnified. In my horror at the truth to his words, it hadn't taken much to believe that he truly expected that one way or another I would do his bidding, by hook or by crook, I was going to Naxxramas. We both knew I couldn't be killed, but he would incapacitate me to the point of physically placing me in the care of the necropolis haunting the fields._

_My footsteps faltered on the hem of that blasted robe as he edged closer, his twisted smirk pulling at the thin skin he had covering his face. The pulse beat on my brain faster, the power I drew from the land pooling from my feet and swimming upwards. For all he spouted shite about it being lowly and dirty, the fact that I was a death knight was still evident. And my master's lands were beneath me as we spoke. My eyes flashed blue and I saw blood._

_Adopting a worried expression, I feigned fear well enough for him to grow cocky and dove for his feet. He was fast, there was no denying that. His lack of body mass attributed to quick movement and his daggers swung downwards to slash the back of my robe. The poison seeped into my skin and contorted my muscles. My own body reacting, I found myself on my feet, the element of surprise gone now as he regarded me as on the defensive. Truthfully, I didn't expect to survive the encounter in one piece, but I wanted to leave a mark at least. He sensed my hesitation and took advantage, slinking to my right, forcing me to match his footsteps clockwise to stay across from him. A noise – a horn- sounded from behind me and an unintentional look told me that a death knight patrol was passing nearby and down below. The only effect of the horn was the controlling of the mass of scourge at the foot of the cliff I stood upon and a distraction for me which was costly. The blade pierced my ribcage and paralysed me entirely in all of three heartbeats._

_"Good luck in there, Little Girl, you're going to need it," he whispered at the side of my head before withdrawing the dagger and swiftly booting me off the cliff in a flurry of confusion and snow._

_I don't recall the landing so much, but the fall- oh yes, the fall I remember. It was long. And I turned twice. Each time I was skyward facing, I caught his face, sneering and calculating, watching me descend with a cold detachment only afforded by the Forsaken. My last vision of him had been clouded by slobbering Scourge hounding around me like flies to a carcass. My inability to move allowed for a swift capture from the passing patrol when they came to see what had excited the flesh-made puppets. Jeers, threats and cajoles passed their mouths as I was dragged by my feet on the end of one of their chargers. The cliff side had drawn out of my line of sight, still unable to move in my broken agony as I unwillingly followed my ex-comrades to the base of operations._

_Naxxramas cast its shadow over me for the first time in my memory. I had not been welcomed into the ranks as Mort may have hoped. Edmund had not been there to my recognition- there were other prisoners, not all of them undead like me. After that, I had become a toy, a plaything and entertainment for the sick individuals haunting those halls. My time in my fantasies was the only relief I had been given, and it had felt like an eternity._

And now, laying in my bed too weak to move fully, I felt like I was paralysed on the edge of the cliff once more, waiting with baited breath for him to topple me over and feed me to the proverbial dogs. Our gazes had remained unbroken throughout my recall, his hands lovingly ghosting over his blades with a cloth as he wiped more poison on them – either in a non verbal threat or a deliberate show of what exactly awaited me if this all went belly up, but now he dropped his eyes to his handiwork.

"A very detailed account.  _Too_  detailed." His crooked voice was baleful and as poison-tipped as his daggers. "This is a problem." I waited, my recount finished now, and it was his turn to move a piece on the board. My outlook wasn't grand. "And does anyone else know of this?"

I shook my head. "No, but I do have it written down." His hands stopped moving and quick as lightning did his eyes seek my bedside table.  _So_ , he knew that I had the journal and that was its normal resting place. How long had he been spying on me? It didn't matter, I had to deal with the here and now. What  _did_  matter was turning the tables. Throughout my retelling a calm had blanketed me, allowing me to detach from the situation and focus on survival. The imminent fear I felt from before, while not gone, was shrunk greatly in size to something I could ignore temporarily. The very fact that Mort sought my journal in a motion as such indicated his thoughts- he knew I had a journal but he didn't know if I had divulged anything in it and to what extent. A small irony presented itself when I remembered that he had been the one to deliver the book back into my hands before we arrived at New Agamand. And now I was using it against him. Feeling slightly more confident in my tight corner, I felt emboldened, but not so much as to get cocky. Even with this small development, the ground I tread was remarkably unstable.

He had yet to answer me, weighing what he knew of my lying habits against my recent revelation. Had I been lying or was I telling the truth? Could he risk such a large secret? If I were incapacitated or unconscious by his hand- permanently or not, could he find the book and burn it? He didn't know. And I could tell he didn't know. Atop the cliff that day he had revealed plans and intentions of the Society that perhaps he wasn't supposed to have and judging by how cautious he was being in proceeding now, some of it  _had_  to have been true otherwise he wouldn't care so much. By his calculations I was supposed to be a fully-fledged death knight among Arthas' ranks again now, not laying in a solitary hospital room in the middle of Dalaran blackmailing him with his own divulged information. Slowly, the image of  _him_  having  _me_  cornered was morphing in the reverse.

"Cunning, very clever. I applaud your foresight." His gaze refreshed anew on my and I found it even sharper than before. Somehow his appraisal didn't feel all that brilliant for me. The knife slid back into its resting place and he sat back in his- the chair. Night had fallen and the lamplight cast unearthly shadows on his cadaverous form. "You anticipated my visit, then?" I nodded mutely, not trusting my voice right now. I could feel how tightly drawn my face was and thanked the heavens and stars that I wasn't breathing for sure as death I would have been hyperventilating from walking these eggshells. "Perhaps I should have come sooner, but it is done now." His enunciation was elongated and deliberate and I still didn't entirely know where I stood. He put me out of my misery.

"Very well. I will leave you alone for now." He stood to his full height, an intimidating presence in this dark room. With silent footfalls did he draw up beside my bed and bent to meet my eyelevel, boxing me in. "This is not over, Cersae. If I catch even a hint of a breeze that you have let this information slip, we will be having more than words and you will not escape unscathed as you have tonight." His whispers were dangerous and ominous, his words sending chills up my spine in terror and they ended with his lower jaw dislocating once again. Instead of fixing as had become his habit, he remained still and I looked him full on in the face in the dim lamplight.

His features were made exaggerated and acute by those treacherous shadows. He was vapid and skeletal, his expression haunted and macabre. Where this would have been comical as had been before, now it was beyond terrifying. A rictus grin cut across his angular face like a bloodless slit and there was a madness in his wild eyes I had not seen from his seat across the way. It was no longer just his exterior that was twisted and foul; his mind was beyond  _insanity._  The full weight of the jeopardy I had truly been in came crashing in around me.

I didn't move for long after he left my company, my limbs incapable of listening to me and I remained frozen until the dawn. When I came round to my senses, I glanced down the back of the bedside table. Sure enough the journal still lay there, hidden, from where I had knocked it accidentally only yesterday afternoon. That accident had possibly saved me in more ways than one and I couldn't quite absorb that I had actually succeeded with my bluff.

I hadn't even  _looked_  at the damn book since waking let alone written in it and it only resided there in the first place because Luciya had left it there after taking it from my pack. I doubt I could have played it off so well if Mort hadn't been tending his daggers with poison and thus not looking at me at the time of my verbal risk. Thanking whatever deity or force had been at work in the last few hours, I sent silent prayers out- reciting from long-since-read holy books from my youth. I had played a dangerous game with an even more dangerous man and I had come off better-  _this round_. I could only hope to be better equipped next time round, for sure as I lay there Mort wouldn't let this lie for long.

When Luciya dropped by that morning she asked how I had been through the night. I responded with a hysterical laugh and left her with an unanswered question.

 


	47. A New Dawn

All attempts at an expedition beyond the confines of my quilts were met with cold, hard resistance- or as it's more commonly known, the floor.

My legs betrayed me as they wobbled at the knees, not even trying to hold my feather-like weight and instead collapsing promptly thus allowing me to become well acquainted with the cool flagstone that served as my room's lowest level. My arms, the lanky sorriest excuse for upper limbs one can imagine, made a fair effort to support my weight- or therefore lack of- upon the bed frame, night stand and chair back. I managed an exultant four footsteps from my bed before greeting the ground less than civilly once more. This was a vast improvement considering my last attempt at escape in this manner had my face planted earth-wards before my feet had even had a chance to leave the bed properly. Needless to say Luciya found me in this predicament and was rather taken with the comedy of it. She snickered with greetings each time she entered the room asking if I had travelled on any 'grand trips' lately and to send her a postcard next time. If I had the strength, temerity and ability to strangle her, I would have then and there,  _the cow._

Not once, but twice I nearly asked for a rug to be imported into my meagre room for the sheer purpose of providing a softer landing- the bruises were getting harder to explain to my self-appointed nurse and I had a large suspicion that he was in on my escapades. Nevertheless, I still ventured when I felt possible and attempted for a beeline to the window. For days all I could see were colourful rooftops, tall unchanging spires and the occasional passing cloud. One time I even saw a bird or two- what an exciting tale that had made!

Understanding in my confinement under the cover of necessity, I was nevertheless riddled with curiosity as to what Bart and Luciya saw out of the window each time they visited. Luciya liked to place the chair next to it to view out and Bart preferred his trademark I-am-broody-and-this-is-my-broody-stance to peer down below. Here I was in the most populated semblance of civilisation in the entirety of Northrend and so far all I had seen were chimney stacks and tiles. I wanted to change that.

Also, thrown into sharp relief by Mort's visit only a day ago, I needed to build my strength for danger seemed to be lurking and vulnerability didn't mix well with my already hazed nerves and emotions.

Emotions. They were fairly raw. I had had a grand total of three sessions with Lynara and his  _healing_. Two of those times he was under the impression I was Forsaken and therefore should only be  _slightly_  allergic to his administrations. That notion was soon dispelled and he realised that Holiness in any medium caused me grievous pain. The third time was a cautious prodding-and-poking session to see what worked and what didn't. His grasp of my biology was off-centre with what he knew of Forsaken and he wanted to proceed accordingly. I admired his dedication, and gratefully accepted his help, but after each session, I had been willing to throw him out of the window immediately due to the pain my body experienced.

To say it burned was an understatement. Fire was hot, and as such did particular damage to skin, muscle, bone and everything in between. The Light did not work like that. Oh no. Where fire only damaged the inflicted area, Lynara's healing abilities- strong and potent as they were- saw fit to spread through each inch and fibre of my body, reminding me of my Unholy state and just how incompatible his powers and my form were.

Despite the rather excruciating pain- which had lessened only marginally on the last sitting thanks to his caution- I was left trembling and jittery as my nerves forced themselves to calm against a pain that hadn't really been there in the first place. My wounds were no longer bleeding, but not neither were they closing up. My abdomen held a particularly deep cut that troubled even the blond priest presiding over me, but he was content to leave it for now declaring me in no immediate danger. The other downside- or upside, depending on which way one prefers- to my exposure to his holy healing, was I felt, well,  _feelings_.

Fear, was prime and front currently. My … _interaction_  with the Baron Walden the evening prior had left me shaking and scared- something of which I was not used to. Even knowing that my demise was unlikely, the thought of his harming me struck a terror into me that I was not equipped to deal with. Whatever Lynara was doing to me, it was baring me like opening up a raw wound further and tending the nerve directly. Each time sent a shock to my mentality that I had to readjust and adapt to. Clinically I was still the same death knight, but something within me was changing. Something non-biological.

The memories of Naxxramas were hazy and fuzzy, possibly due to my time ensconced in my false environment with Edmund that had taken the edge off the worst of it. A grand hallucination it had been, but an illusion, nonetheless. And yet I found myself in dozes and naps to jerk awake in a cold sweat, breathing heavily with breath I had not taken. No air entered my lungs, or if they did it was with accident and a forceful expulsion- an action which caused me great physical pain. My heart remained still as it had this past three years even though I swore over and over to Lynara that I had felt it when awakening the other day. He not only believed me but looked deeper into the cause and stated that it wasn't my heart that was beating, but my essence, my vitality – my soul, if you please. I scoffed at the notion but deep down I did feel… _something_ …pulsing oh so softly when left with my thoughts at night. I had thought to imagine it, but I couldn't say for sure either way. All-in-all I was feeling overwhelmed, undernourished and entirely bored and so my excursions to the window sought to grant me a task to complete.

My embarrassment was to reach no end in sight as it was during one of my few hours' solitude that I once again made a bold exit from the bedcovers and unsteadily placed my weight on my small feet. I had nearly reached the windowsill- my fingers outstretched when a brief knock and swift opening of the door disturbed my intense concentration and sent me crashing to meet my good old friend who would always be there to catch me when I fell- the floor.

Cursing the intruder to the Plaguelands and back, I was roughly drawn up by a pair of pale hands and found an amused expression at the other end of them.

"Stop smirking, you git, and get me into that damned bed," I grumbled to him. Obliging, Lynara hoisted me up and tucked me in as if I were a bairn. Entirely absorbed in my abashment at being caught in the act I had failed to notice a second guest until he moved awkwardly from the doorway.

My double-take was not hidden well and in turn my headscarf became undone and tumbled about my face. Distractedly I attempted to fix it only to have my fumbling hands shooed by Lynara's more steady ones as he affixed it around my scalp once more.

"R-Ryndan. Hello. You look…"  _Dreadful_. "-Well." To be honest that was a complete lie. He looked fairly hellish compared to my last memory of him- and he had been recovering from a rather intense beating that time, if I indeed recalled correctly.

His right arm was engulfed in a sling that was made of cloth less grubby and more clean than my own headpiece and he had lost weight- a lot of it and he was never really big to begin with. His clothes consisted of a non-descript tunic-trouser combo that allowed for easy movement and comfort and the bagginess of them only highlighted his slighter form. Still bulkier than Lynara and I put together, he seemed to have lost the hardness associated with health and was replaced with a sharpness only worn by the sick and infirm, yours truly a perfect example of this latter state. His face was gaunt, a faint shadow of hair on his jawline giving him a scraggly look from the normal clean-shaven and well-to-do Captain I was used to seeing, and altogether it made his face seem hollow and drawn. Bags were evident under his eyes, the rumour of his nightmare-ridden sleep seemingly true and his brown hair was untidy even though an apparent attempt at running his fingers through it seemed evident.

And yes despite all this he still looked healthier than I.

His only response to my greeting was a faint nod in my direction, a quick sweep of the room with his tired eyes and a slippered walk to the high back chair where he sat down uninvited.

"To what do I owe the…pleasure?" I addressed not only Ryndan but the other elf in the room as to  _what exactly was going on._

"Ryndan claimed ennui and so I brought him along with me to visit. He is unable to leave the hospital for the time being while his recovery is underway but found the ward he was on stifling. You two know each other so I thought a small reunion was in order," Lynara answered as-matter-of-factly. He sounded like a child ordering his dolls about a play house- 'this was my way and it will be done, no questions asked  _thank you very much'._ Ah yes, there was the prissy princess I recognised from New Agamand, the  _order-abouter._

I made a small 'o' with my mouth and unsubtly glared at him for his interference and nosiness. "Well, thank you for your  _kind consideration,"_ I pointedly made a face at him when Ryndan wasn't looking our way- not that he had made much eye contact with me yet, and by 'not much' I mean 'none whatsoever'. Lynara threw me a knowing look and I found my hand itching to meet his face, preferably with a great deal of force.

"Indeed. I will pass on your healing session today and instead pop down to the kitchens to salvage something light for you both to eat. Cersae- you are to make an attempt at eating and we will note if you can keep it down and any good it does you. Ryndan, you are recovering from a hangover and some porridge will do you some good. I shall be back soon." And he left with a twinkle in his eye and a smirk on his face that was just _begging_  to be wiped off. Painfully, I decided.

This left us both in a dreadfully awkward silence as neither of us knew what to say to each other. Ryndan stared in the direction of the closed door and I made a show of looking at my limited view of the skyline. It had been several weeks since we had last lain eyes on each other and I found myself unable to make comment of much. Feeling his discomfort rise to similar levels of my own- somewhere in the region between 'Mildly Anxious' and 'Extremely Panicky'- I ventured with the first thought that came to my head, "So, how were the funerals yesterday?" His stiffened face told me all and I mentally berated myself for being a moronic  _imbecile_. They were funerals, Cersae, how do you  _think_  they went you  _twit_? Happily full of glee, laughter and joyous sing-song? A clue,  _no_!

"They were proper and formal, as should be. The souls laid to rest should pass over with no hindrance."

"Oh, that's…good. I suppose." And thus ended our first 'conversation' in weeks. Lynara returned some quarter of an hour later to find a rather terse Crusade-Captain and a fretting ex-death-knight who didn't know how to handle social awkwardness. With a frown the priest set my porridge aside to cool and mothered over Ryndan until he had eaten at least half of his bowl. The distraction was enough to break the suffocating tension and we were both similarly grateful for the interruption this time. I concluded that here was  _not_  the ideal place to escape a stifling ward. Soon thereafter Ryndan departed back to his ward and I made a valiant effort to eat some food. I brought it all back up later on but the attempt to consume it was award worthy.

Lynara left with promises of improvement and bade me to keep trying. I would receive a small cup of porridge in the morning that I was to attempt when I could and also to try to drink more water. This was the least I could do as for the small time that the cereal had sat in my stomach, a kindled warmth had spread throughout and it did make a difference until bodily functions sought fit to interfere. Lynara's theory was that I was so unused to eating after a three-year abstinence from the habit that any kind of food- no matter how plain- would seem inherently rich to my digestive tract and so I just had to train it to accept food as a respectable source of sustenance again.

It made a weird sense, I suppose, and it's not like I had better things to do than reminding my body of its primary functions.

My time for the next few days was filled with visits from my odd collection of company. Luciya would sit with me in the mornings, coming in early in a heavy jumper or cloak (neither of which did anything to hide her provocative curves, grand bust or rough scar) yawning and complaining about work. I assumed work to be her 'companionship' and being in the hub of the most populated area of Northrend must provide ample opportunity to sell her …  _wares._  Sometimes she brought a book with her that she had pilfered from some dense sod throughout the night and read aloud to me until she fell asleep in the chair. I didn't mind this, her presence was comforting and her soft breathing was an quiet source of background noise that mixed with the sounds of busied streets that seemed so far away over the windowsill. She would wake eventually complaining then of hunger and went to raid the kitchens to satisfy her needs. More often than not she didn't return until the morrow and so this left me alone for a short while before Lynara visited in the afternoons- sometimes with Bart in tow.

The two had struck an obvious friendship outside of this room, seemingly brought on by their shared concern for me stemming from my retrieval from Naxxramas. They both held an interest in cloth, I found out- Lynara for comfort purposes (though I secretly think he revels in some of the finer materials despite his Poverty Vows) and Bart for the more fashionable side of it. I was made aware of his tailoring project in Wintergarde and praised his foresight of the use of Frostweave (I had no idea what it was until Lynara explained) to provide cold-resistant clothing that aided in the survival of many in Naxxramas against a frost wrym (again,  _no_ idea what it was until Lynara divulged in detail). A few, however, had suffered despite these extra layers of protection.

Zul'khar, I learned- Baljia's brother and second-in-command of their small guild- had contracted frostbite at Naxxramas and within hours his left leg up to mid-thigh and one finger from the same side hand had been amputated in an attempt to save his life. His recovery was stilted and hard, the blond priest had sadly informed me. While all of the Durotar Defender's had survived the raid on Naxxramas, they all felt Zul'khar's loss keenly as if it were their own limbs. I asked Lynara to pass on my best wishes to him and told him to find a pretty girl to chat up- preferably one that didn't turn out to be a fair-faced man, I joked, recalling Zul'khar's comment about being among an entire group of beautiful women once in New Agamand.

Lynara promised to pass on my words of wisdom with a wan smile and moved onto other topics such as my eating and drinking. Bart, when he accompanied the priest, remained ever-silent, staring beyond the glass pane seeing who-knew-what. Whether he found comfort in the priest's presence or merely wished to catch a glimpse of Luciya in passing, I did not know though I suspected the latter. There was an obvious point of contention between the carrot-haired woman and her darker, taller friend, as proven by a terribly awkward accidental meeting in the crossover of arrival and departure. Luci refused to look at him and Bart did nothing more than stare after her directly, his mouth set in a grim line. Only once did I inquire about this strange turn of events with them both separately and both stated in no uncertain terms that it was something they wished to remain undiscussed.

Lynara had been silent during that odd exchange between Luci and Bart, merely peering after her curiously before examining their mutual friend and suggesting a trip to the best tailoring establishment Dalaran had to offer. Bart had huffed his agreement and they set off not long after. I found myself grateful that the few people I had grown close to were caring for each other, but envious that I could not join them on their trips out. I briefly despised this room, bitterly regarding it as a piss-poor 'freedom' before blanching when I realised how unbelievable I sounded when I compared this to my prior chain-ridden gaol. Indeed I didn't travel down that line of thought again.

The final- and most recent- addition to my odd collection of company was Ryndan. After the first night of allow-me-to-sink-into-the-ground-now-please-before-I-die-from-embarrassment awkwardness, he avoided my company until two nights after, knocking with soldier's efficiency on the door and opening and closing it in the same stiff manner. He claimed a headache brought on from loud people on his ward that disallowed him sleep and sought somewhere cool and comfortable to rest stating that such a place was the high-back-chair everyone seemed to favour. He said little else to me that night, but I had stayed in bed half expecting him to burst from frustration or boredom. He was tenser than a wound up spring, but the explosion never came and come morning, he stood up, bade me a quiet farewell and left.

I had no idea if he had even slept, him having turned the chair away from the bed and faced the ominous window promptly, and can only guess as to his thoughts. But he did return the next night, and I offered a blanket and clean pillow this time, to which he politely declined, again preferring the coolness in the room. By the third night, I expected him and didn't feel so wooden sitting silently in his presence. I took to reading Luciya's discarded books during these nights- soppy romance novels with too many swooning women and not enough mystery or excitement- and kindly ask that she steal something worthwhile reading next time her fingers itched to 'borrow' from a client's library. The next couple of books proved a little more worthwhile of my attention, though they still lacked a certain humour and characterisation that I longed for. All-in-all I sometimes forgot Ryndan was even resting in the room, so still and contained he was.

Until the fifth night of his sitting there when sleep had claimed him and he tossed grizzly in the chair. Murmurs, pleadings and whimpers left his pale lips and I found myself able to traverse the space between bed and chair to confront him. True enough he was suffering a nocturnal horror that I could not physically do away with for him. And so I kneeled at his feet, my hands cooling on his feverish head, silently bidding him to waken up. His free hand clenched tightly enough to be white-knuckled and blood-drawing despite his short nails and it took several attempts to relax his fingers and allow circulation once again. I was in a small panic, unknowing if he was a danger to himself in this state but was allayed to only cautiousness when his furrowed brow relaxed and granted him a comparatively serene expression compared to the terror-drawn one he had suffered most of the night.

The day following this incident I asked Lynara how to deal with someone who suffered from nightmares, citing that a character in one of those frivolous books did and was simply curious if there was any action to be taken to alleviate someone suffering them. I did not know if he was aware of Ryndan's nightly forays to my room- as scandalous as it sounded- but if he did, he let slip no hint of it, simply explaining what little could be done. So that night, when Ryndan returned, seemingly unaware of my witnessing of his vulnerability, he settled into the armchair, sorting his position to comfortably support his sling and gazed out into the black night.

I attempted conversation tonight in an effort to distract him, talking of stories of Luci's conquests this week alone (though I have reason to believe some of them were exaggerated for theatrical effect) and making off-handed comments about my small amount of progress made by Lynara's guidance (I could now hold a small cup of porridge down. I could also pass it successfully but I left that particular part out) and that my strength was returning. My hair wasn't, mind you, but my atrophied muscles looked less corpsified and more stringy now. Having exhausted all topics of 'conversation', I use the word loosely as it was entirely one-sided, I instead turned my attentions to reading whatever my current source of entertainment was out aloud, making hitherto comments here and there about the stupid main character, or the cliché of the villain. He never answered, but soon a soft snoring from one side of the high-back-chair indicated a rather tired and gone paladin.

It lasted perhaps two hours until he started crying out in his delirium. Not so surprised this time round I put Lynara's words to good use and made my way shakily out of bed to hobble over to the armchair. Resting on the floor, I reached up and stroked his forehead gently, hoping to soothe him. When that didn't work, I took his free hand into mine, noting how incredibly larger-and hotter- they were than my small ones, and massaged his palm in an effort to stop him from injuring himself. It seemed to hold his nightmare off for a short while and I relaxed a little when he did.

I had yet to sleep since awakening in front of Luciya a few days ago, occasionally getting caught in an odd limbo between slumber and wakefulness that left me dreary and tired despite how close to sleep it seemed. I didn't feel replenished or better after these small dozes, just unsatisfied. So sitting in this room without even nightfall to look forward to because of sleep left me feeling empty, clinging on to whatever entertainment I could in all forms- and sadly, caring for Ryndan in his nightmares seemed to qualify under that, distracting me from my painfully slow recovery. It gave me a purpose, and an abstraction from my worries. His presence afforded me some feigned sense of safety. Perhaps because there was another body in the room, Mort had yet to revisit me if he had planned to and so Ryndan's company, even in his dilapidated state, was a form of shielding I suppose, making me treasure him even more.

Luciya's presence when he left also granted me this 'shield', callous as it sounded, but even with her in admittance and, unlike Ryndan, in full cognitive awareness she lacked the combat skills to defend me. Ryndan, I prayed, would be able to use some form of soldier training in the unlikely event of an unwanted- and hostile- visitor, but Luciya couldn't even defend herself. Over the last three days she had come in with slight bruises and bandages poorly hidden beneath her baggy, long-sleeved tunics, complete with tired eyes and a weary drudge as she dragged herself through that old door. I thought about prompting her to talk about it, but I figured that if she was having trouble with clients, I wasn't the person to help her, not when I could barely walk to the window. Instead we had spoken of other things. She, in the early days of my recovery, pressed me for information about Naxxramas, some morbid curiosity burning in her amber eyes to which I couldn't answer due to a lack of having a tour around the place. If I had been there in my darker days, I didn't recall, my only returned memories seemingly from my time in Stormwind.

My biggest revelation from these 'new' memories was that I was human. This didn't surprise me- any description I had blurted out or seen in my mental-mirrors had me as brown-haired and –eyed. When I said this to Lynara, he and Bart said simply that this made sense seeing as elves don't have brown eyes typically. However for now, the reason as to why and how I appeared to be elven remained a mystery to me. I wasn't deterred, my memories were slotting into place and right now the puzzle was mostly complete. Only a few gaps here and there remained.

Ryndan moaned in his nightmare again and a cold sweat had broken out on his brow. Frowning I repositioned myself onto the arm of the chair and gently teased his damp hair with my fingers. His whimpering abated shortly afterwards and softened to easy breathing. His troubled expression didn't disappear completely, but it was wholly better than it had been throughout the previous nights. In the end I sat through the darkness, holding him when he needed it and whispering empty words to calm him.

Come a few hours later, finally able to peer out of the window that had eluded me for so long, I witnessed the first sunrise I had seen in weeks. And the light felt warm on my skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Embarrassingly I completely forgot to update the last 3 chapters on here after I posted them on FF.net.
> 
> So, so sorry! I'll keep on top of it in future!


	48. The Mortal State

_The Day After The Funerals._

"And flex your fingers. One at a time- ah, there we go, a flicker will qualify for today. Now your wrist. Don't grunt at me, just do it. Move it a –oh, was that you or me? Hmm."

Tenderly, Lynara placed the seized limb back on the bed. Temporarily free from its bondage in the sling, Ryndan's unresponsive, agonising arm was undergoing its daily bout of therapy under the watchful eye of his friend. However, when in pain it's very difficult to remember that he was supposed to be a friendly unit and it took considerable military-drilled restraint not to unleash a torrent of pain in the priest's general direction. Now that the exercises were over, Ryndan worked at unclenching his jaw, the joints protesting after the tension they had just succumbed to in the last half-hour to save him from crying out.

"I'm not seeing any progress, with your arm or you for that matter," Lynara stated, scratching at his barely-visible stubble. Last night's round of drinking in celebration and sorrow took its toll on them both but the fairer of the two seemed to come off far lighter. Ryndan's pounding headache and dry mouth left little to be desired and a lot to be miserable about so when the other elf arrived early and disgustingly cheery, Ryndan had been soured further.

"With me? I would hardly expect to be in the best shape right now. I did nearly die a few days ago, might I add."

The levelled look he received cowed and shamed him enough to murmur an apology.

"I am aware, but even so, these injuries just aren't making headway. No matter what I do or try…" he trailed off in thought and perched still at the end of his bed, clearly mulling something over silently. The ward bustled around lazily behind him, the nurses tending their rounds in there for that particular hour. Ryndan could see one or two fellow comrades being urged out of bed, waists held tight with strong, medical arms while they were encouraged to take a few steps. Another bandaged soul was being spoon-fed, his bodily injuries still too grievous to even allow him freedom of movement and two others had the curtains drawn around their cot, though he could see the rustling indicating movement and action. Probably bed-pans, he thought detachedly.

Coming full circle, he found himself at the opposite end of a very direct, jade gaze.

"What?"

"I'm just wondering," Lynara started, still staring at him with furrowed brow, "if there isn't in fact anything wrong with your arm at all."

"'Nothing wrong'? Have you seen it? It's stuck. It's stubborn and uncooperative." His free hand waved angrily at its useless companion.

"Much like you."

"I'm sorry- what?"

"It's an unusual phenomenon and I've never witnessed it myself but it can occur when one suffers traumatic experiences. Their body mimics injuries and wounds that aren't actually there-  _psychosomatic_ , I believe it's called. I cannot find any physical fault within your musculature, nervous system nor skeleton to indicate such a wound. The dislocations were unfortunate but they don't parallel this-" he waved a hand at Ryndan indelicately, "stress after the fact. You should have regained immediate freedom with your arm, albeit weakened, but your dislocations weren't so severe that you should have this grief." He stood and placed the offending body part back into its sling. "Which is  _why_  I have reason to believe this is psychological." Two pale fingers reached forward and tapped the side of Ryndan's temple, irritating him further.

"So this is my fault?" he spat bitterly, his brain pounding for release from its skulled prison.

"No, not insomuch." Lynara was unfazed by Ryndan's sour disposition this morning. "Like I said, it's psychological- that doesn't mean it's entirely deliberate. Mainly your subconscious is working against you in this way, but I'm not wholly versed on the ins and outs so let me speak with someone who is before we determine this as an official diagnosis, yes?" The cheery matter-of-factness normally didn't bother Ryndan, mainly because he respected the priest's professionalism but today…today it was chafing his temper. With great conviction, the paladin managed a civil 'mhmm' before Lynara dismissed himself with orders of 'get a bath, you reek'.

Taking a moment of solitude to himself, he closed his eyes to the world and retreated inwards, past the headache and into calm. The funerals yesterday had been arduous and drawn out, but they were over. His anger had abated only slightly at the Crusade as a whole and it was only because of the after-effects of last night's drinking binge. A wispy reminder floated in front of his mind's eye and he revelled momentarily in the happy news that he was to be an uncle in the near future but the moment passed quickly as the over-shadow of his depression came lurking onto the scene. Feeling fully ensconced now in his black mood, Ryndan downed the glass of water by his bedside, simply wishing at this moment for relief from his hangover.

The day passed in a sluggish crawl, Ryndan's thoughts making for poor company well into the evening. So far he had accomplished little- a sparse wash over a bowl of cold water with cracked soap, one solitary trip to relieve himself and he had managed to eat a grand meal of nothing. In an effort to distract himself he had lain in bed trying to recall less-dark days before Naxxramas. Before the slaughter of too great a number of friends and pledged siblings. Before he was haunted nightly by grievous mistakes and anguished moans.

By comparison, his time in Wintergarde seemed like a holiday. The dour days that had blended into nights, while being harder to get through, were easier to bear on his soul. The weight of guilt and sorrow was too great a burden for him to consider bearing in his sorry ass state and he felt even more pathetic every time he drew that conclusion.

His plan worked for a short while, recalling fond memories of laughter- Jerewyn wrestling with Miles in the snow, the success of the destruction of the Wintergarde mines, his boys teasing about Jason's ability to sleep almost anywhere…

His melancholy magnified after this.

Just as sleep was going to claim him for a break from this one more memory presented itself. A memory of him, Ashwood and Eligor Dawnbringer standing around a table, overlooking aged parchment and faded witness accounts discussing Anub'Rekhan. The story of the dwarven survivor lingered briefly in the air, just having been told to them from the Commander. Ryndan remembers the taste of bile, the anger at the injustice in the felling of the first raid on Naxxramas, and he remembers Eligor's words about the broken woman:

_"She died in her sleep after passing on the information. Tragic, but it was for the best. The horrors she experienced would have not let her mind rest for the remainder of her days."_

Distantly, somewhere in the recesses of his exhausted consciousness, Ryndan couldn't help but wonder if this was what was in store for him. And he doubted he had the will to fight it.

* * *

Lynara returned that evening, claiming ennui. His guild mates were dispersed- the troll twins involved in a ritual with a visiting witchdoctor in hopes to aid the brother's recovery and the warrioress had disappeared to some tavern or such. Having no desire to drink two nights in a row, Lynara instead suggested taking Ryndan for a walk.

Tired but not lifeless, his temper and mood had dissolved to the point where he was malleable to almost any idea right now. He too was in fact bored to his roots, having descended into a trance like state in an effort to urge time forward quicker. It had proven unsuccessful in Ryndan's impatient opinion. A quick glance to the darkened sky told him that it was most certainly after dinner but not quite midnight. After mulling the idea over for all of a moment, Ryndan mumbled his agreement and struggled from his bed. Lynara was strangely too delighted at his compliance but schooled himself into propriety and offered a crutch to the paladin.

A glare was all the priest needed to place the offending object out of sight.

Slowly limping- his excursion yesterday to the funeral and his post-funeral activities has drawn a lot from him, surprisingly- he exited the ward of out-cold patients and padded down the hall in his slippers, plain dress and sling. He didn't even care about the destination if there was one, he just wanted the chance to get out. He wasn't allowed off the ward without a guardian- a notion that he found ridiculous, he was a grown man for Light's sake- so this little expedition would prove to be the most exciting thing all day and possibly for the rest of the week.

Unbeknownst to the paladin, this was  _not_  to be the case and in fact may qualify under the list of boring events over the next few days. Fatigued with exertion despite their slow pace, Ryndan hadn't even noticed where they had gone, simply focusing on following the plain grey robes Lynara wore in partial-mourning. His friend had been chatting away aimlessly about this, that and the other but he hadn't the attention span to focus on both his motor skills and listening. Due to this, he nearly ran into the straight back when Lynara stopped still in front of a door.

"Well, here we are!"

Bewildered and entirely lost, Ryndan observed an empty- and quite frankly dusty- corridor, with little light to make it seem better. Confused he admired the door- wooden, plain, unadorned. Finding no answers he raised a silent eyebrow to the other elf.

"Ah, well, seeing as you probably wouldn't visit of your own volition, I have in fact brought you to Cersae's room. Ah! Don't panic-" for Ryndan had in fact started at this revelation and almost made to high-tail it back before he realised that he had no idea where he was. "She doesn't know you're coming, it's a surprise for you both." Lynara took both of Ryndan's shoulders, taking care with the right one, and held his gaze all serious and determined. "Look, this is hard for you both- you've both suffered things in there that the other won't admit. She's asked about you and I know you've thought about her welfare." He couldn't deny it. While not being in the forefront of his thoughts, Ryndan had somewhere in the back wondered how she was healing. The guilt over blaming her for the plague had been displaced a little since the night prior but he still felt too ashamed to even thing he deserved to know about her.

"Just trust me." Three powerful words coming from Lynara's mouth halted any argument Ryndan could only hope to have made. Still slightly startled by the sudden turn of events that he was unprepared for, Ryndan ran his left hand through his already-dishevelled hair nervously. Ignoring the soft smile from the priest, he simply stared at the door, almost willing it to not let them enter but alas, it failed when Lynara knocked and opened the door with ease.

He'd faced Scourge en masse. Killed death knights on their own turf. Slaughtered high-ranking disciples of Arthas ranks and even participated in the downfall of the infamous lich, Kel'Thuzad.

So why was the prospect of talking to one bedridden girl so terrifying to him?

* * *

"It wasn't your fault, you know."

He didn't answer, opting to draw from his water goblet instead. The lack of response was of course, noted, but not commented on, something of which Ryndan was grateful for. Instead, his commanding officer simply sighed at him.

"Your guilt won't disappear," she stated primly. "It will grow and fester and infect you until you learn to curb it. There are ways to handle this, medicinally speaking, but I fear that that is not an option for you." Her focussed gaze on him was pointed and while not judgemental, Ryndan certainly shifted uncomfortably under it. She referred to, of course, his lingering addiction to the sleeping draught. He had emptied his phial almost three times as fast as anyone else he saw use it and had been disallowed a second allotment. In his disturbed state last night- for sitting in the same room as a girl who he held a lot of guilt over had certainly distressed him- he had made back to the ward and had been unable to sleep. Instead his heart felt heavy in his chest and disallowed him any peace to find even an hour's rest. Desperation, perhaps, lead his feet from his bed and tumbled him over to another patient's bedside- the bandaged, immobile one and he had attempted to draw from the half-empty phial of the sour elixir that would grant him solace.

It would have worked had he not fumbled with his one working hand too much and dropped the damn thing. Needless to say, by the time the report of his deed had reached Ashwood's ears, shame had swelled quite spectacularly within his already-troubled mind.

He wasn't surprised by her visit to the ward the very next day.

Reprimanding, scolding and disappointment was what he expected to receive and rightfully did he feel like a child caught stealing from the proverbial biscuit jar. Except that these biscuits were not healthy for him and almost certainly destructive in the long run despite being told over and over by parental figures  _not to touch._ But the anger never came. The attack was non-existent. Instead she sat across from him and with as much compassion in her eyes as he'd ever seen, she regarded him not like a subordinate or soldier, but as a man sitting on a bed in a hospital.

Delicate was never in her vocabulary so she stated properly everything she wished to say, but there was no denying the quieter tones, the patient listening and usual lack of bite to accompany her speech. His horror at his actions paled in comparison at his embarrassment in front of his mentor. After declaring that medicine wasn't an option for him right now, she had lapsed into silence, thinking something through as carefully as Lynara had done only the day previous before declaring that his injury was made up. Part of him begrudged being treated like glass, but with hindsight he could see how volatile he had been since leaving Naxxramas.

"I want to thank you, Firesworn." Her voice, while sudden, did not alarm him, but caused confusion. She elaborated, reading his expression. "You performed brilliantly against Anub'Rekhan. I was down for the count and you took the lead. You were a merit to the Crusade, your family and yourself. Your quick thinking and level headed ability saved many lives in that room, and for that, I thank you for stepping up."

He marvelled at her. Had she forgotten the four who died in that room alone? The priest, the healers… _Jason._

"You were just as admirable for the entirety of our time there. You took care of the soldiers- and our allies." She went on, listing other 'accomplishments' and 'achievements' made by him in those dark hours in the necropolis. He tried to refute those as duty and necessity but she refused to hear it, waving him off. Finally she reached the crux. "Your command in Kel'Thuzad's chamber was not incorrect, you must understand. I would have given the same one in your position."

"You don't know that."

"Very well, I don't know for sure, but re-evaluating the situation has made me think that there was no option. You weren't to know that would happen."

"It doesn't make those who followed my order any less dead."

"No, it doesn't, but it should help lay those ghosts to rest. You cannot mull over every mistake and bad outcome, Ryndan. We are soldiers but we are not infallible. Even we have limits to our sanity and right now yours is very fragile. I want you back in active service, Lieutenant-Commander, but I won't have someone who is a liability under my command." Her message was clear. Clearer than anything Ryndan had been able to string together the last few days in the least anyway-  _you're a decent soldier and I need you well again._

"I understand, Commander. Thank you," he croaked, able to return her gaze temporarily. She said nothing for a short while, making him shift on his bed. It was bad enough to seem so informal in front of a commanding officer but to appear so, so  _broken_  just made him feel worse. He did not like being viewed as weak and here he was at his most vulnerable.

"I think I know how to help you, Firesworn," she finally said thoughtfully.

* * *

The room was disorganised but empty apart from him. Entropy greeted him when he found the room he was directed to and it made him freeze on the spot while he determined exactly what it was this that this mess was. And then he realised and was almost tempted to laugh.

They were packs. Bags from the soldiers that had been brought only that morning fresh from Wintergarde. These packs held most of the worldly possessions of most of the Crusaders and had been left at the town after they had ventured to Naxxramas. After the necropolis had fallen and decimated the lower ring entirely, the shockwave had blasted most of the windows and damaged the upper ring quite badly, according to the reports Ashwood had just delivered to him. Due to this, the delay in the packs' arrival had taken this long to organise and now they stood, piled upon each other like sacks of vegetables.

And it was his job to sort through them.

In his left hand- his writing hand- he held a very important piece of parchment. It was a roster. A special roster. One that told him who was alive and who was not. Ashwood had declared that it was his job to find the packs of the ones no longer with them so the Crusade could forward them post haste to their respective next-of-kin, if indeed there were any to be had. Solemnly she declared that this was his penance for last night's indiscretion and that she hoped it would help him.

He had sincere doubts about that.

Nevertheless, tasked with this, laboured with one hand only, he drew a deep breath and reached for the first pack.

Two, possibly three hours later, he stared at a coin. A plain, standard, run-of-the-mill silver piece. The only difference was that this coin was threaded onto a thong of leather and kept in a roughspun pouch. There was nothing immediately significant or special about it, but the only reason it caught Ryndan's attention as it rest lifelessly in his palm was that he had found it in Jason's pack.

For the most part, the sorting had been easy and quick going- find the name-tag on the pack, match it to the list, double check the condition of the owner and place it to one side depending on the status of the name. But when Jason's name passed under his gaze, he knew immediately that there was no next-of-kin to pass this on to, making him as much the family to receive the pack as any of the others unknowingly soon to be recipient of the same bags.

He felt no shame in looking, in fact he found a small comfort. Jason had been under his watchful eye for as long as he'd joined the Argent Dawn at aged fourteen. He'd been a troubled street urchin, homeless and thieving before being caught and drafted. It wasn't an uncommon form of recruitment, but for the most part the Dawn liked their sign-ups to be voluntary. Even so Jason had stayed with them for four years, growing into a fine young man who died…perhaps even nobly.

Pocketing the piece, he decided on passing it to Edrikson and Danila- they were as close as brothers to Jason as any of them had ever had and if they couldn't be allowed his pack, then Ryndan wanted to give them  _some_ token to remember him fondly by. It was the least he could do.

Sitting the pack with the smaller pile he resumed his work, feeling a little bit sorrowed but invigorated by the labour, enjoying something to do, something to distract him. At least, until he came across his own pack.

It was a bit more tattered than some of the others, having been in his care for years now, housing his most precious of items- the shaving bowl so lovingly crafted by his sister, the razor set gifted by his father and other knick-knacks that would mean nothing in the hands of someone else. Even so, like an automaton he checked the name of the pack against the roster and stared at the familiar letters.

**"Lt. Commander Ryndan Firesworn: Alive."**

A strangeness overcame him as he read those words. He was alive, wasn't he? He had survived Naxxramas. He had  _survived_  Naxxramas. He had survived  _Naxxramas_. Somehow, no matter the order of the words, they just didn't quite register in his mind properly. Something was missing, but he didn't know what.

Instead he turned to empty the pack, lightly touching his possessions as if willing them to heal him, to ground him and rid him of his sorry self.

His fingers paused at the wrinkled envelope. It was addressed to his family. The seal was unbroken. Another sign that he was alive.

He knew what words lay beneath the envelope. He knew each stroke that had been carefully crafted with such precision and care that one might treat it like a work of art. The words were too private, too personal to bear repeating ever again and it was these unvoiced thoughts that would mark the letter as sacred to his family. But he saw it as a tainted object. A diseased thing. Something he wished to ignore the existence of as he had only ever intended to write it once in his life, and wished even harder that the seal would never become broken while he remained in active service.

He returned the effects to the pack and tied it tight, marking it against his name and placing it in the larger pile. The touch of the letter lingered on his fingertips and no amount of ink spatter could hide the sickly feeling he felt after coming across it again.

He did not go to bed until quite late that night.

The nightmares visited on cue and forbade him quietude in the burnt out part of his mind.

He could do nothing but muffle the screams into his pillow as he awoke once again in terror and grief.

* * *

He snuck out of the ward the next night. He was too fidgety to stay still in the calm of the ward and sought solitude. Or at least partially, he told himself. After a few lost turns and corners, he had found the entrance to her room again. He composed himself this time, reminding his shaking nerves that he was here voluntarily and it was because her room was quieter and cooler that he wanted to return. Not because he wanted to see her again. No.

Steeling himself, he knocked quickly and entered the same way Lynara had two nights prior before he could bottle it. Her surprise was evident and he refused to look in her direction, instead mumbling some excuse or other that he couldn't even recall ten minutes later. Seating himself in the same chair he had before, he made a show of getting comfortable and that was it.

He didn't know what to say, what to do. So he fretted for an hour. Getting here had been the  _majority_  of his plan, anything beyond this was…surplus. Cursing himself for not thinking ahead he struggled to open a line of conversation, wanting to dissolve the awkwardness in the air. The first night had been too high-strung, too disastrous for either of them to begin talking comfortably and after all the bad feelings he'd secretly harboured against her before Lynara's revelation, he felt like he had to make it up to her, even if she didn't know why. Almost clutching at straws, he made to start talking about anything before a soft whimper cut him short.

Turning in the chair, ignoring his jarred arm, he spotted her, half-slumped on the bed, her strange new addition of a head-wrap partially sliding down her face, making noises of discontent.

He watched her for a minute or so before determining that she was in her own state of sleep. Violent movement beneath her hooded eye lids attested to a cruel dream- or perhaps even a memory, he realised with worry- and her hands twitched nervously atop her many blankets. The fit didn't seem to last long, as she calmed shortly thereafter to a state where Ryndan was satisfied to sit back properly without watching her in case of – well, he didn't know what exactly.

Did she suffer this every night? Horrors and nightmares like he did? At least he had (estranged) company on the ward in case he needed aid but she was alone in this abandoned wing of the hospital. Who could comfort and calm her if her terrors became too much?

Unsettled by this revelation, he eventually settled into a half-doze until the dawn light awoke him. After a stretch and yawn, he made to leave without waking her before finding her watching him carefully from her bed. She hadn't made any noise upon awakening and looked otherwise undisturbed by her nocturnal ordeal. Not knowing what else to say in light of this, he bade her farewell and went back to his ward before the nurses started their rounds.

His confusion lasted with him for the rest of the day.

Ryndan didn't even notice that while keeping watch over her, his own torments had been dormant that night.

* * *

The next night was not unlike the one previous, however this time she seemed more aware upon his arrival. Looking less like a hen cornered by a fox, she greeted him warmly, almost expectantly, and offered a pillow and blanket that night. Declining out of surprise more than politeness he sat back down in the chair determined that tonight would be the night he could finally open up about his misplaced ill feelings about her and to ask for her forgiveness- but it never came. By the time he worked up the courage to start a simple conversation a new sound had periodically filled the room- the tell tale rustle of paper. She was reading.  _A book._

His shaky confidence left him in a trite, and he found himself not wishing to interrupt her leisurely activities, not when he brought himself uninvited into her personal space and she allowed him with no questions asked. Shortly before he drifted off, he realised that he had never seen her read before and allowing himself a small glimpse at her reflection in the window corrected this. She looked content, occasionally making faces at the literature- some humorous, others distasteful and one so ludicrous that Ryndan nearly burst out laughing. Her mouth muttered beneath her breath and Ryndan caught bits of pieces of it here and there. As far as he could work out, these books were not of her choosing- or liking.

The following few nights were like this. A companionable silence now sat between them, some of the strained tension lost between one day and the next, evaporating into the air as if it never existed. He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment that sitting there morphed from uncomfortable to natural, but he was grateful of the transition by the time he noticed. His days were easier going, having finished sorting the packs. His daily sessions with Lynara weren't so anger-filled though his arm was still struggling to perform even simple tasks and his separation from a roomful of sleeping draught made it easier to forego the temptation whenever he feels like a bad night was forthcoming.

On the fourth night, while stretching in his chair, his eyes caught the sight of something hidden. Checking that his roommate was in her doze, he crept up to the bedside table and strained to reach behind it. A leather bound book was the mystery object and he only flicked through a few pages to determine what it was- a journal of some sorts. He stopped at a page that seemed to stand out. The writing was not like the rest, it was heavy and spiky and masculine. Ryndan surmised that this may be Cersae's personal diary and the few bits of writing he had caught all had the same uneven cursive, which is why this particular page stood out.

It was lyrics, or a poem of sorts. He read a couple of lines out to himself, committing them to memory. "I saw her upon nearer view, a spirit, yet a woman too. Her household motions…light and free…and steps of virgin-liberty." The rest seemed just as personal and obscure before he noticed the title: "For Earalith". Ryndan stared for an undetermined amount of time before he placed the familiarity of the name. Luciya had mentioned it to him on the road between Valgarde and Westguard. She had said…that… _Edmund_  had cried the name out in his sleep.

Baffled, he checked a few of the entries, not reading them but just noting the signage- "Cersae." This was her journal for definite, so why was what was presumably Edmund's handwriting doing in her book with an ode to another woman? Logic and Sense refused to take part in this problem so with a heavy sigh did he return the book to its hiding place in the hopes to make it appear undisturbed should Cersae look for it. He was too tired to dwell on it for long before sleep claimed him.

She continued to read in these nights and he would continue to covertly observe her reflection until either she or he fell into slumber. She remained oblivious to this innocent voyeurism just as he remained oblivious to the fact that she had witnessed him in the throes of a nightmare. It was this lack of unknowing that confused Ryndan when one night she just started talking to him. Or  _at_  him. He was still too upset at himself in a way for betraying her to answer beyond non-committal noises and movements of the head. If he was honest, he simply enjoyed listening to her voice and didn't want to disrupt or interrupt her. It was the most pleasant it had ever sounded despite its scratchy quality. Her voice was damaged, majorly recovered though from a few days ago. Lynara had confided in him during one of their therapy sessions that Cersae's throat was severely messed up. When Ryndan asked why, Lynara regarded him worryingly, pausing in his exercises. "Because of all the screaming she must have done under torture," was all he said on the matter.

Of course that's what it would have been. She was lucky to have a voice at all right now. But even in its hoarse state, he could still hear her excitement, happiness, humour, wit, confusion and myriad of other emotions seep through in inflections and exclamations. It was the most animated he had ever seen her, going right back to the time of their first meeting: a fresh-from-battle paladin and a lifeless doll. Ryndan was fascinated. Watching her was one thing, but listening to her seemed to enthral him. She had a vibrant energy around her that made him forget about her death knight persona for a long while. She looked so  _alive._

Her upsetting dreams still came and went, but he kept a closer eye on her after she awoke, the window serving as a mirror into a world of truths. He surmised that she wasn't even aware of falling asleep, never mind reliving bad memories and he found himself ingratiated to The Light for allowing her that small mercy. He himself often awoke with the feeling of …well,  _being off_  but he couldn't place it. His nightmares were distant visitors since he spent the time in Cersae's room, a small correlation he refused to spend time thinking about. But even so, he awoke shaky or sweaty as if he had  _had_  a nightmare but he couldn't grasp the memory of having one.

That was the case at least until one morning when he awoke, bleary eyed and sleepily to find an angel sitting almost in his lap.

The chair had faced the window his entire time he had visited, allowing him an unsolicited view to the outside world though it was oft shrouded in darkness by the time of his arrival. But this morning a figure, soft and fragile-seeming was encircled by the fresh light streaming in. Haloed around her, he had to blink several times to stop the stinging as he couldn't tear his gaze from the mirage. A fluttering feeling at his hands distracted him enough to realise that the illusion's hands where holding his left, both of her small palms sandwiching his large, calloused one. The thumbs were absently rubbing his skin in a gesture of comfort, though for what he couldn't fathom, but all of his short attention was focussed on these hands. They were soft and gentle. They were cool and pale, like snow. They were real.

He followed her wrist to her elbow to her shoulder where he admired her profile. No longer gaunt, no longer carrying a dead weight in her eyes, no longer carrying a pained expression did she sit in front of him, her mouth open slightly in wonder as she gazed out of the window like it was the view to the entire world.

And then something changed. She turned in a sudden way, something alerting her that Ryndan was now awake. She searched his eyes with hers in askance and he nodded, letting her know that everything was well.

And then she smiled. And he was captivated.

For her smile was genuine. There was no judgement. No horror. No wariness as she looked upon him. She saw him with all of his faults in his broken, injured state and still held his hand in hers. But that wasn't the most intriguing thing to Ryndan. No. The most fascinating thing of this entire moment to Ryndan was her eyes. They were no longer the pale white associated with blindness and ailment and neutrality. Now her eyes were silver, and full of spirit and  _human_.

He squeezed her hand and smiled back, feeling easier in his heart than he had in weeks. Turning to look out the window, they both watched as the world kept on turning.

The light felt warm on his skin.


	49. Reflections

_Twelve Days after the Felling of Naxxramas_

"How is it you remain seemingly unaffected by the events at Naxxramas as your comrades?"

"As a priest with the extensive training I have had, I have been afforded a mental strength, if you will, that allows me to negate things such as fear, terror, horror and whatnot to allow my concentration to be best served elsewhere- such as those in need of healing."

Curiously, Bart admired the man beside him with a sidelong glance as they strolled through the quieter streets of Dalaran. Naxxramas had been a nervous experience for himself purely for the lack of  _not knowing_. The ignorance and being-kept-in-the-dark-terror that had accompanied the central medical bay had been heavier than any bodies they had carried. He was not usually so affected by such fears, having learned in his six decades to keep it behind closed bars and to funnel it into strength and determination but the majority of those around him were not accustomed to such discipline. Their jittering and whimpering panic had picked away at Bart's mental wall enough to allow a little terror to seep through that day, and it was not a feeling he was comfortable dealing with for it had shaken him in ways he wasn't prepared to admit- which is why he found the priest's unassuming façade daunting. Bart thought-judging by the circles beneath the green eyes and thinning face- that perhaps Lynara wasn't being wholly honest in his deflection of horror.

"Is it so easy?"

Lynara looked to him sharply. "Easy? No, far from it. A large amount of meditation was- and is- required to achieve such a level of indifference. I have had many years practice, not to mention an abundance of my own trauma to draw strength from." This answer humanised Lynara in a way he had yet to see the man walking alongside him, something which he was strangely pleased about.

Lynara pulled ahead to avoid oncoming pedestrian traffic allowing Bart to regard his straight back curiously as they walked. Stoic, forward and yet seemingly at ease, the priest was something of an enigma. The few holy men he had had contact with exuded an aura of self-importance or condescension thanks to their belief in 'The Light', and yet this man in front of him radiated everything but that. His concern and worries were genuine, and he held enough clarity of the mind to be able to focus on the priorities and necessities needed to solve the things that he was in charge of. "May I ask what kind of trauma?"

His step faltered, covered up by an accidental slip up on his hem as he fell back in step beside him. Bart let him have his small illusion in the wake of upsetting him unintentionally. "Enough to build a guard up in my mind to allow me to keep focus," he answered vaguely. His Sin'dorei accent laced his common as he became more guarded. "Do I feel the deaths of those at Naxxramas and Wintergarde? Of course I do, but I don't let grief bog me down. Those lying in the hospital are not weak or undisciplined for keenly feeling the pain of their friends' deaths, they are in mourning, suffering their own nightmares and horrors whilst dealing with the fact that those they leaned on heavily previously are no longer by their sides. They just need to rebuild their walls. They may not be as strong as they once were, but they will be there, and will improve over time."

It was all so…clinical, Bart thought. To surmise someone's grief into a simple metaphor of brick and mortar seemed almost shameless and uncaring.  _But it's not, he's not incorrect in what he says._ It had been a long time since the taller elf had felt grief at someone's death- but he had recent felt loss. Luciya's simple betrayal, throwing his affections back in his face with a simple name. She had known for a long time- she wasn't blind or an idiot- and yet within one breath the bond they had shared had shattered- and the wall he had been climbing over to reach to her came tumbling down beneath his feet, sending him crashing to the ground and burying him under the weight of it. Yes, the metaphor certainly held true at the basest of levels. Perhaps it was time to start relaying the foundations again- with something stronger this time. He vowed to force Lynara to eat something first and foremost once they had finished in the tailoring emporium. The priest was not looking after himself, and Bart could rectify that.

"You teach valuable wisdom at such a young age- how is this?" He teased. The mood had become too solemn and serious and he wished to correct that also. His own thoughts had been harkening him as it was in his solitude, only to be even more magnified following Naxxramas. He had found his unlikely growing friendship with the priest to be something he looked forward to building each time they arranged to go out into the city. They both knew- though never said- that the real reason for it was a mutual need for company and distraction, but he found a kinship and friend he had not experienced for some time. His ruminations continued as they still walked at a leisurely pace, weaving in and out of the crowd, but their steps were heavy with severity until Bart's attempt to lighten the mood. It apparently worked as Lynara raised an eyebrow.

"What makes you so sure I'm younger than you?"

"I can tell, it's a skill I possess- reading and evaluating people." Certainly his past heavily attributed to such a talent developing, saving his hide on more than one occasion.

"Indeed? Well, age certainly helps with wisdom, but I find that experience becomes it. I've been a very active person since I was young- or younger- and I've seen and done things others perhaps even twice my age haven't dreamed of. I have travelled to far corners of the globe and through the Great Portal. I have learned of love- platonic, romantic, familial and more as well as pain and grief. I am a product of my life and the way I have lived it." His voice was lyrical and melodic as if reciting poetry and a wave of contentment washed over his face, clearly recalling times passed. Bart was pleasantly awed at the man. "That," Lynara continued with a shy smile, "and kneeling in prayer for hours at a time becomes boring so my thoughts tend to wander and review my memories."

Bart found himself laughing loudly- the image of the devout priest, completely and wholly devoted to his religious studies and morals only shattered in an instant and became replaced with the simple picture of the man beside him.

"You devil, I thought you were a typical stuck up holym'n with just really good intentions. Being bored during prayers? Is that even  _allowed_?"

"Probably not according to the official Precepts of the Churches, but I'm fairly certain I'm not the first person to grow inattentive during Reflection or Masses."

"Well, well, a Priest who disobeys the rules. Certainly a rebel. Do you disobey any other clerical laws?"

"Mmm," he thought, "Let's see. One or two. I do hold a certain high standard of hygiene which isn't always attainable out in the world and so I become very aggressive if I don't get my way. I like to feel clean, but not even I can adhere to the absolute simplistic lifestyle one of the Holy Orders should maintain." He threw another shy look Bart's way. "I am fond of two luxuries because of this stubbornness; fine- but durable- clothing and scented soap." For the second time that day, Bart laughed and then indicated to Lynara's plain, woollen robe.

"And is that where all of your funds go is it? Good clothes and smelly soaps?"

"Alas! Sometimes. I can make my own clothing and pieces for others –as I frequently do- but I also spend my small stipend on others where I can."

"Ah yes," Bart said knowingly. Only a few days into their visits to Cersae's chambers did Lynara halt on the street, much to Bart's surprise. The priest had stopped to talk in low tones with a woman and after exchanged smiles, bartering and coins, Lynara came away with a half-dozen loaves of semi-stale bread. Upon enquiring as to what he intended to do with such produce, the blood elf had replied that he was going to couple it with cheese and gift it to those in need. Bart then pointed out that he could have purchased quality bread from the local bakers, but Lynara shook his head and with a patient smile explained that he wanted to aid that woman's trade instead of someone already well established. The bread was still edible, he iterated, and it would not go to waste this way. Bart had watched him in awe that day, wondering why he was still surprised by the man anymore.

"So let's see then. A rebel, hygienic, image-conscious and good-willed, that's quite a repertoire!" He counted it off on one hand. Lynara flashed him a full on grin- the white of his teeth set against his alabaster skin and surrounded by platinum hair only colluded to the image that he must be made of actual light. The only thing that broke up the paleness of his face was his green eyes- anyone with eyes of their own could see that. "And handsome too- you must be quite popular amongst the ladies then?" To Bart's surprise the look of rare show of glee on Lynara's face fell sharply. A terror, long since suppressed, surfaced and he felt fear for this fair-faced man. Had he too been at the violent ends of someone's unwanted advances due to his features? A flare of anger at the thought ignited in the night elf.

"Not entirely. Even if I were it wouldn't matter." And he closed the subject, announcing their arrival at their destination- the tailoring shop. Bewildered and confused, he watched the back of the smaller man as he went ahead inside to ponder his last statement. Had he hit a nerve? Perhaps his assumptions were correct? Bart only knew too well from past experience in the whorehouse how rewarding and accursed it could be to be handsome- and a feminine face like Lynara's would have been ripe for many a heavy-handed perverts.  _Or_ , another voice piped up,  _was his order unable to participate in matrimony or conjugal activities?_ A past lover he couldn't let go of simply causes heartbreak and pain to think of her? Once again Bart found a keen understanding of the man now browsing simplistic bolts of fabric, his hands gliding over them as he chatted with the owner.

The night elf found his thoughts drifting curiously over the priest's curt reaction, hoping he hadn't indented their burgeoning rapport. It was only after he found himself eavesdropping on the professional conversation between Lynara and the owner, looking for a chance to join in with his own opinions, that he found himself questioning  _why_  he was so curious as to the priest's reasons and sore points in his past so not to upset him in future. Was he so pathetic after losing Luciya that he unconsciously latched onto the next person to show him even an ounce of kindness and interest?

A bitterness filled him without due warning and filtered into his mood at an alarming rate. At least Luciya understood, at least she knew about him. This priest, this holy man, did not and would most certainly judge his past and history- even if he never voiced it, like so many others, Bartheleus had seen the accusations and lingering taints behind their eyes whenever they looked at him. The prostitute, the man-whore, the vagabond and thief. Lynara would be no different. He turned his back on the two talking and turned his bleak attentions to a bolt of dark fabric. A calligraphic label defined this as  _Ebonweave_. This was him, charred and ugly and roughly cut. Whereas its neighbour was the opposite- the white, glowing  _Moonshroud_  was Lynara. It was prim, proper and delicate yet durable. Side-by-side he held the swatches. They did not line up, they did not compliment each other. They clashed, horribly and disastrously. No, they were not matched at all. Coldly, he replaced the swatches.

He refused to look at the raucous red of the ' _Spellweave'_  nearby.

Looking up, his eyes wandered to the window outside, the clouds darkening like his mood and the lamps lighting in fiery sparks like his own thoughts. A movement drew his focus inwards as he caught sight of the blood elf in the reflection- staring at  _him_ , or more specifically his back, with a furrowed brow and intense stare. Corrupted by his own mistrust, Bart looked away. When curiosity reluctantly drew his gaze back upwards, Lynara wasn't looking his way anymore.

Bart hated the disappointment he found in that. Perhaps it was time to reconcile with Luciya. They may never be friends as they once were, but there was a mutual partnership to be found with each other, offering benefits and skills the other didn't possess in order to survive. Yes, that was how he had made it through the bordello and how she survived Northrend, they needed each other and nobody else.

In a shop with a friend, amongst the busiest city he had inhabited since Stormwind, Bartheleus had never felt so desolate.

* * *

_The Next Day- Two weeks Since The Felling of Naxxramas._

Ryndan stared at the pale woman before him in confusion before repeating what she had just told him.

"Fruit?"

"Yeah! Bart was really nice and came around with the basket late last night. It's got all sorts- apples, pears, grapes. I have no idea what this is," she held up a pineapple, something Ryndan himself had only come across a handful of times in his life, "and some other nameless things that probably taste as disgusting as that did." She grimaced to the side of her cabinet where a large strawberry was missing a Cersae-mouth-size-chunk out of it. Despite himself, he chuckled at her.

"This is a strawberry, you're supposed to eat it with yoghurt to take off the bitterness," he supplied. She gaped at him for a moment.

"Well I didn't know that! It didn't come with a warning label now, did it? Anyway, I think I know who it was really for, this basket," she leered from her standing position where she was currently making her bed. Ryndan moved the strawberry to the wastebasket and took a peer into the fruit basket.

"Who it was for? You are not the intended recipient?"

"Oh Bart says I am, but when Luciya came in this morning looking worse for wear, you can imagine her face when she spied this! Lit up like…I don't know, a bonfire with all that hair of hers. Anyway! She dove straight into it and helped herself. She told us when I first met her that she trades in fruit instead of gold – because she doesn't eat meat you see- so I think this was secretly a ploy from him to get her to be in his good books again. I have no idea what happened between them but the sooner they figure it out, the better I say! Maybe then he'll stop being so damn grumpy and broody whenever he visits."

All through her monologue Ryndan had watched her with a fascinating eye. She was so animated, so lively while her small, fragile hands worked on the sheets, spreading and pulling them until she was satisfied. He couldn't get over the difference between her of two weeks ago (no healthier than a corpse) and this  _woman_  before him. In one quick turn she faced him, eyes wide and headscarf loosening.

Her hands fumbling to fix it, she rattled off to him excitedly. "Hey, Lynara says I can go outside to the courtyard today on one condition- that you come with."

The hope in her eyes as they locked with his filled him with a shameful sort of pride, the one he associated with liking being needed by someone. They weren't the death knight and a paladin. They weren't the ex-Scourge and broken Crusader, they were a man and woman looking to enjoy an afternoon of sunshine. He found himself agreeing instantly.

* * *

Ryndan's days soon became filled with time spent in her company. He sat with his regiment, inquired after them, sought after their health and wellbeing but horror and grief were still rife in the air. For a large chunk of the survivors, this was their bloodiest and most harrowing experience to date. Even Ryndan struggled to find anything anywhere near comparable to Naxxramas, and so he ended up favouring her time over the Crusade's as a method of escape. Inevitably, as their time together grew more friendly and less professional, their attentions turned to other things, including their concern for their mutual, waning friend- Lynara.

"What makes you think he's all right?" Ryndan asked her one afternoon.

"Well he always seems so collected."

They sat in her chambers today, the rain outside halting their daily walk. She was perched on her bed, blanket around her waist and he sat in his usual spot, a cushion supporting his slung arm. What had started out as an innocent discussion about a trashy book Luciya had left behind had somehow evolved into hidden agendas and false façades.

"I'll chalk it down to you not knowing him that long but Lynara is actually dealing very poorly with all of this."

"How do you know? Has he told you?"

"Not in so many words. What do you know of his days in Dalaran?"

"Erm, he sees his guildmates, you, me… Bart sometimes and that's it," she counted off thoughtfully. Ryndan nodded.

"He is very concerned about us, no?"

Apprehensively, she agreed. "I suppose…"

"Why do you think that is?"

"Because he's a healer, isn't that their job?"

"For most, I suppose. But Lynara takes it above and beyond the call, don't you agree?"

"I'm not sure; I've never really seen him outside the room since I've been here. I just figured he was a bossy-boots and was taking the opportunity to order everyone about and we just let him because we know it's for the best, really."

"That's because he's mothering us, busying himself in us to tire and wear himself out. He spends every day, at all hours, apart from when he sleeps, with someone. He's not all right, Cersae, he's actually very, very upset. The more he's involved in, the more tired he'll be and the less likely he'll find the time to dwell on what's happened. Essentially, he's ignoring Naxxramas in favour of looking forward."

"Can we help him at all?"

"I don't think so, he's somewhat stubborn like that, adamant to be the pillar everyone else is leaning against. He likes being the support, he likes helping people. The best we can do is not put too much weight on to him but just enough so it distracts him until he pulls through this denial."

"Will he be all right soon?" she asked, concerned etched into her small face. He smiled wanly, wishing he could give her a solid answer on the matter.

"Who's to say?"

* * *

_Three weeks after the falling of Naxxramas_

While she hummed happily, he silently regarded her. She had been in his life for a few months now and with a startling realisation did he see that this was the first time he had seen her relaxed and… _human._

Laying in the Dalaran gardens, they had snuck out of the hospital grounds from out from the nurses' watchful eyes. Feeling like a child again threw Ryndan back into happier memories of his childhood days on the family vineyard. Cersae's giggling reminded him of his sisters' and the thrill of escaping without getting caught granted Ryndan a pleasant rush that elated him like nothing else he had felt in a long while. They didn't get too far, their own stamina severely weakened from so much bedrest, but found a patch in a secluded park with green trees, even greener grass and curving pathways. It was mostly empty this day, leaving them plenty of space to sit down in.

They had relaxed and settled, breath catching and smiles infectious. Cersae, all small and garbed in grey- a cloak of his own drowned her for she was not going out without something to protect her, sat smiling to the blue sky, admiring the clouds passing on so closely above them. Even though the weather was nice enough, it was bitterly cold and she was still recovering.

He found himself thinking back to when they first met- in Light's Hope Chapel. She had been in a cage, silent as her heartbeat and as dirty as her deeds committed. Then she had retrieved the body of the fallen soldier she had slain- and she had been covered in his blood. Thereafter, on the field in one last ditch effort from the abandoned Scourge and Death Knights did she slaughter mercilessly in battle and saved his life, blue eyes ablaze in power and dominance. And she had been dripping in blood. Soon after, at Valgarde, she had nearly died as a result of negligence against the Vrykul- her armour stained with old -and new- blood. In the Catacombs, brawling with the sentries, she had been decorated with the blood of her prey. With Ayres she had shown uncharacteristic compassion in easing him towards death, freshly bathed in the blood of the sleeping giants she had slaughtered. Then she had left them, departing southwards on a mission to sabotage the unruly Forsaken- and she had succeeded, but not without fatalities. Even leagues away did her plaguework brutally dissolve a living Vykrul bloodily in front of Ryndan's eyes. And when he next saw her- still and pale- within Naxxramas and this time her own blood ran free from her veins, the very blades she herself had wielded something like piercing her like pins in some sick effigy by the blood of former comrades, nonetheless.

He knew her history was The Hacker- Koltira had divulged as much upon her primary retrieval. A coldblooded butcher who pulverised the corpses of her slain and fallen into nothing shy of mincemeat. Tales of Death Knight acts were not uncommon as campfire horror stories, but hers were always amongst the goriest and worst. Hers were most gruesome and spine-shivering simply because nobody could understand  _why._  It was the one taboo question he hadn't dared allow himself to think of asking, firstly because he didn't want to know the answer, and then it was because he didn't know her very well or have the desire to, but that had changed as of late. Which is why he betrayed himself.

"You were- are- The Hacker," his thoughts treacherously left his mind and escaped through his lips, but her reaction halted his. She froze instantly, her expression unchanging, the humming stopped. His thoughts continued moving his mouth without permission. "Why did you butcher the people you slew into bloody messes?" He could almost see the replay she was undergoing in her own mind through her glassy eyes, recalling each time she stepped up and hacked them into anonymity.

Slowly those silver eyes turned towards him and he met them levelly, refusing to take the unintentional query back. In the few months they had known each other he had never asked the one burning question he thought he needed an answer to. Part of him was afraid, afraid to destroy the fragile image he had built up of her- a broken young woman attempting redemption, trying to find her lover. There were miniscule cracks in the picture, and he was scared that the answer to this question could accelerate those cracks and shatter his impressions, revealing nothing more than a cold-blooded death knight with bright blue eyes, a dead expression and a bloody intent.

"Because it was the right thing to do."

Now it was his turn to freeze. His anger acted before his rationality, and his mouth moved before his mind did. "What- what do you mean by that? How in the world could that  _possibly_  be the right thing to do?!" Imagined images of puddles and heaps of ex-people reared themselves in ugly fashions before his mind's eye. Did she do it to please the Lich King? Was her own Endless Hunger that much greater than her compatriots – so much so that the blood sacrifice required was therefore greater?

The cracks in the image spread, darkness seeped through.

"I mean that it was one last thing I could do for them." She was steady and factual in her delivery of answers. The excited, girlish voice was absent and it made it difficult to understand her intentions- both in the way she answered and in why she had done it. The happy, healing Cersae was dormant- or gone- and the neutral, early days Cersae was back in front of his very eyes. The change was impalpable and surprising- all because he opened his mouth.

His first shock had been that she didn't deny it up front, claiming amnesia or memory-loss as would have been handy to do, a  _convenient scapegoat_  as Ashwood had called it once. He didn't understand her reasons- why she was explaining at all, why she was explaining to  _him_  and why she thought it was right- was she being satirical? She was looking at him as curiously and as calmly as he (hoped he) did her.

"Ryndan, where is this coming from?"  _The very dark part of my mind that I don't like to frequent often_ , he thought. His visits there lately had been many and terrible, but after Lynara's confronting of him a couple of weeks ago, he knew he must deal with it and this was one of the things to be tended.

"I need to know. What were the specific reasons for tearing them apart even in undeath? Why did they deserve to be turned into bloody pools of carnage?" Her eyes searched his, their gaze unbroken and companioned only with the silence stretching between them. She was the first to break it.

"Because then they couldn't be raised," she lowered her gaze, no longer able to keep with his. "If I made them into unrecognisable 'pools of carnage', as you so poetically put it, then they couldn't be turned into ghouls. They had already just died by our hands, I couldn't let them be turned into that too." They very hands she spoke about, that had dealt death and pain, were spread open in front of her, bearing judgemental scrutiny by her furrowed brow and tormented eyes.

He merely stared at her, taking in her small form, finding any reason to think she could be lying. He found none. The stories spread around late cold nights at the camps from survivors and passed on by word-of-mouth now became eclipsed by her few simple words. Terrors laid to rest by…mercy. Horrors made noble because of her back-to-front kindness. In a twisted way she saved them in Undeath- even if it meant killing them by her hand.

_But she still did kill._ This one fact was inescapable.

Were the deaths swift or long and tortuous like so many others? He could never know for sure. But one thing did surface- the few stories he had heard were only ever about her  _post-_ death activities, no one ever commented on the method she used to dispose of her quarry in the first place. No brutality was ever mentioned in her death-dealing like the other infamous knights. Even watching her slaughter on the fields of Light's Hope Chapel he had admired her as a soldier- her moves were pointed, direct and as necessary as they needed to be. She dealt the most damage with minimum effort, simply aiming to kill- not torture. This idea held a small, bizarre comfort for him.

"If I didn't kill them, someone else would have. There was no escape for the ones who died by my blades." She faced him once more, a picture of severity and sincerity- possibly even…regret? "You wear your heart on your sleeve, Ryndan, I can see your inner turmoil." She sighed and stretched out on the grass beside him, resting on her elbows and looking to the sky. "I wouldn't fault you for changing your opinion of me- if you ever had even a semblance of a civil one that is. I realise I'm not the most popular death knight in town- and that's saying something given that I've only ever seen Terowin. The fact of the matter is I  _did_  kill, and I  _did_  murder, and I  _did_  slaughter. There were children, men, women- armed, unarmed, able, disabled, it didn't matter. The numbers are endless and I doubt I could recall them all. I was out on duty, and that was my orders."

The soldiers' prayer, motto and curse-  _I was following orders._ He knew the burden of those words all too well, but that didn't mean he didn't have a conscience- he had questioned direct commands in the past. She had not.

"But why?"

" _Why_?" She laughed bitterly, he found he disliked the sound immediately. "You don't understand, Ryndan. He talks to us, individually. We can hear Him in our heads," she tapped her temple, her voice dropping to a half-mad whisper. "Whispering, goading, taunting, ordering. He tells us to do it, and we are compelled to. There is no  _not obeying_. The only freedom of movement I had in my own mind was when I felt sated- that's when I could  _think_." He would be lying if this didn't frighten him- Terowin had mentioned something similar in the past and now here she was saying the same… was it enough excuse to pardon her crimes? He didn't know, nor would he ever. Her shoes are ones he could never imagine walking in. But that didn't stop him from wanting to try to understand her.

"No- why did you start doing it? Cutting them up, hacking them?" He vividly recalled that day at Light's Hope Chapel, when she had taken the discarded weapon and torn each limb gruesomely from the renegade Death Knight's corpse in fell swoops. She sat back, the wild look in her eyes fading.

"I- I don't really remember. I don't even recall being conscious of my reasoning for doing it. After a while, it just became habit and I was another mindless puppet dancing to the tunes of the Master." She fell into silence, but what she pondered, he did not know.

"Do you hate Him?"

"Who? Arthas?" Ryndan nodded wordlessly. "Well- I…no. I don't."  _That_  was surprising. He asked  _why_. She frowned skywards, looking for an answer. It evaded her. "I don't know. I don't really recall meeting or even seeing Him, for that matter. I can't picture anyone to hate, and even if I could- well, it seems like a waste of energy. I mean, I was the one who got trapped into joining, so I'm responsible in the long run." Rubbing her face she lay back on the grass, the cloak sprawled out beneath her as she was still searching the sky for an unobtainable answer to an unknown question.

"Are you? Responsible, I mean. If you were tricked or trapped then surely-" She sharply looked up to him from her horizontal position. Her brows creased in the middle and her eyes were direct and questioning- lost, almost. Or something she was hiding.

" _I_ was the one who did the acts, so it's on me alone. And I know how to resolve myself of those sins, so why waste my time hating anyone else?"

"I see." And he did- she was truly incapable of hatred, of malice. Despite the horrors she had been forced to bear, the youth she was supposed to live had been stripped from her forcibly and yet here she was, refusing to cast blame. She was amazing and he saw it now. Perhaps- perhaps it was this inability to abhor that granted her the strength to pull away from Arthas and begin her on the journey to reclaiming her life back.

"Do you hate anyone?" Her voice was quiet and tentative when she spoke through his revelation. He searched her face and was surprised by what he found; she wanted to know if he hated her for her actions, and the answer was without question that no, he didn't.

"One person, but he's not for your concern." Ryndan wouldn't let her know how much he tortured his mind on decisions already made, orders already given and friends lost by his commands. They weren't her torments to bear.

"Oh, all right then." She closed her eyes, her mouth quirking enough to reveal the small smile she tried to hide.

Yet another weight felt lifted from him- the cracks in the picture he had so carefully constructed healed and solidified, leaving a sad-looking, but whole, young woman in its wake.

"That must be quite a burden to bare however, your past history," he wanted to reach out to her and he hoped to spare her from some of the burden- he knew what kind of weight it felt like.

"Not really. I don't see them in my dreams- not that I really sleep. When I'm unconscious I go elsewhere now."

"Oh?"

"Hmm? Oh, nothing. Just flight of fancy, I reckon. Familiarity is comfortable, y'know?"

"You are a surprising young woman, Cersae." He rarely used her name, even more so to her upfront, but he liked the feel of it and it became more familiar to him each time he spoke it aloud. To his pleasant surprise- she laughed. Not bitterly or darkly like before, but gleefully. A giggle that rose to a stunning laugh that caused her to grin, bearing her teeth and scrunching her eyes closed. She looked radiant. She soon calmed enough to articulate speech, but the grin on her face could not fade. He reciprocated in spite of himself, finding this new development charming.

"A compliment if I ever! You aren't so bad yourself, Ryndan!"

He spoke without batting an eyelid. "I thought so, I make a great young woman." She stared at him for a moment before collapsing in mirth again. The tense spell that had overcome them was broken and it was filled with the sound of her crystal voice.

The mirror shone bright with hope.


	50. One Step Forward

"Oh, this is so good, I could eat these all day!" A lewd moan left Luciya's mouth as she bit into a slice of orange. Her legs were flung over the arm of the chair as per usual and peeling littered the floor around her. She was messy, overly energetic and unreserved in everything she did and yet I couldn't find it in me to be impatient with her for it. Her company over the last few weeks, while extremely excitable and akin to a storm passing through with every visit, proved more than just another body in the room, I had really started to appreciate her companionship. Her lascivious tales were vivid and wild- and nearly entirely made up, of that I was sure- but entertaining nonetheless. While I had no doubt that there was some basis in the stories she relayed, I have a feeling the cloak-and-dagger aspect of some of her plots were lifted directly from those bloody novels she kept leaving at her convenience. I let her keep her illusions though, she was distracted and happy even if the bruises she sported were fading. Nevertheless, I didn't appreciate my room stinking of citrus peel.

"I do hope you're going to clean up after yourself," I nodded to the litter. She had the nerve to glance sheepishly at her handiwork before flashing me a bright grin.

"Sure thing, o feeble one," she popped another slice in her mouth. " Just as soon as I'm finished this delicacy." Her speaking through her mouth caused juice to dribble on to her chin and she wiped it away with her sleeve hem. I was curious if the juice would hurt her scar burn, but thought better of asking. Instead I opted to call her out on her mess.

"I thought you were dignified," pointedly I looked at her over my alchemy book (a gift from Lynara after taking pity on me and my only other reading material). Luciya looked to me sharply, quite offended.

"What on  _earth_  ever gave you that idea?"

"Aren't you supposed to be like…a companion? Isn't there an element of elegance about that?" Her amber eyes stared at me dumbfounded before creasing with a fit of laughter. My own mouth quirked.

"You've been reading too many of those novels! Hon, I am as elegant as a kodo. I have a great body and even better skills and that's all my clients care about. Dignity… _Elegance_ ," she scoffed to herself, eating another slice of orange. She threw a sly grin my way "I'll have you know I haven't shaved in months, my legs are hairier than a tauren!" A bare leg presented itself en pointe as she hiked her trouser leg up to her knee and sure enough, one pale leg was covered in fine, blonde hair. I found myself laughing outright in spite of myself. Yes, she was great company most of the time.

"Speaking of hair, actually, take off your scarf and let me see." Jaw sore from laughing too much already, a smile still plastered on my face, I obeyed and let the scarf descend. Luciya and Lynara were the only ones to see my hair like this. I still mourned it from my time with Edmund in my dreamworld and I couldn't bring myself to look at it-

"Whoa, Cers! What a difference!" Luciya was up in my face sitting on the bed, staring in wide-eyed admiration all over my scalp.

"What? What is it?"

"Your hair, you goose! Look how it's growing back!" A lock was presented in front of me and I nearly gasped.

There was brown. A plain, dull, understated brown but it was there, interwoven amongst the white. And it wasn't a thin wisp of a lock either, it was thicker and – and-  _real._  I choked at the sight.

"Wow, that's stunning. It's like seeing a tree in the middle of a snowy day, all that brown just peeking through the white," Luciya was ongoing in her praise, freely fingering through the strands as she kneeled higher on the bed. The more she did it the more I could feel the  _weight_  of it and the  _length_. It fell to my chin at most, other, shorter tufts growing at their own pace but it was there. I couldn't believe it. I raised my own tentative hand up to my head.

It was like silk. Like cotton, and water and all pleasant things I didn't realised I missed touching.  _My hair._ I could run my fingers through it again! And I did! Several times over, my smile growing wider and my tears spilling over the edge.

"Oh Luci- look! I have hair again-!" I stopped, a few more strands than I felt comfortable losing sat entangled in my fingers, freshly torn from their new root. I was grateful for Luciya's presence even more when she stayed my panic quickly.

"Tell you what, why don't we wrap you up again," she started tucking my hair away and replacing the headscarf, "and let it be for now." She fixed in place expertly all the while I sat still and let her. I gave her a gracious smile and she rest one long hand on my cheek. "There, that's better. Don't tear up-" a thumb wiped my face. "It's growing back and that's the main thing. It's still fragile but that's okay, just take it easy and try not to get too excited, eh? Rule Number One of being a woman, Cersae, save your crying for when absolutely necessary. Tears are a woman's weapon- use them like that and not like this, okay?"

I nodded at her, smiling through my dwindling panic at her anecdote. "That's my girl! Well now I know what present I can get you for Winter's Veil- a new comb and mirror, I think! We pretty women need pretty things, you understand. Helps us keep our confidence and to get our way, you see," she said sagely flicking her own red plait dramatically over one shoulder.

Wait- " _Winter's Veil?_ " I repeated.

"Mmhmm. In a few week's time."

"No, it can't be that time of year. No one told me!" I declared, sitting up straight.

"Cers, it's  _snowing_  outside."

"We're in  _Northrend_! It snows all year round!"

"One would think after twenty odd years on the planet that you could keep up with the times. Literally!"

I groaned.

* * *

"Do you know she still didn't pick up the peelings? Even after I told her too? Oh that woman, I swear I could throttle her if I didn't like her so much!" Ryndan smiled, directing Cersae through the street with his hand on her elbow. Despite being mid-afternoon the sky was dark and the lamps were lit. People were milling and pottering and busying about even more today than usual and he didn't want to lose her. She was so immersed in her small rant that Ryndan couldn't help but smile fondly as he steered her. She hadn't said anything about the bodily contact, something of which he was glad, and instead continued on in her tale.

"So how come you were late round today?" Her pale face turned up to his as they passed by the inn, the multitude of the crowd now thinning to the point where they weren't under threat of separation. He still kept a light hand on her arm.

"I had a meeting that ran a little late, I did apologise though."

"That you did. Was it an important meeting?"

"Very."

"Oh. Is it top-secret?" she inquired, trying to hide her disappointment at his lack of information. He gave her a side glance and smirked a little.

"For now, but not for long. I do have things to take care of before I can say anything however." To his surprise this perked her up.

"Suits me fine! Hey, where are we going anyway? We've never been down this street before I don't think." She was correct, this street was outside their normal walking ground. The last week had granted them a bit of freedom to extend their limits and each day their stamina grew that bit extra, allowing for longer trips out. Today, it was snowing lightly and had a chilling air so he didn't want to keep her out of doors for too long, but they needed to be somewhere. Cersae didn't mind, she was wrapped in her headscarf and thick grey cloak borrowed from Ryndan. He was similarly garbed with thick cloak and a thick collar. With a childish awe, Cersae admired the passers-by and all the colours of the window displays. The specialist shops held particular fascination as they bypassed a shop catering to enchanted dust and shards which had something particularly sparkly shining on its nameboard that physically caused Cersae to stop dead and wonder at it. He tried not to pay too much attention to how he had committed the image of her standing there, bathed in warm lamplight, surrounded by snow and the silvery glints in her eyes as she adored the spectacle. He knew it to be a cheap parlour trick, but to Cersae it was  _magic_ , and that made it magical to him too.

He bit the inside of his cheek, all too aware of the dangerous road he was headed down. Instead he led her down a turn and through a dim alleyway into another backstreet. Much like the rest of Dalaran, the architecture was curved and immaculate, the paving perfect and lamps lit. It was also nowhere nearly as crowded as the main street had been.

They managed to arrive at their destination- though Cersae was none the wiser as to the reason they were there.

"Here we go!" he announced, opening the door to a bell chiming overhead, heralding their arrival. She stomped her boots on the stone outside, shaking off the snow and stepped into the warmth inside, Ryndan following close behind her.

He never made it all the way in as Cersae stopped in her tracks and tilted her head up and all around. He caught a glimpse of her mouth open in awestruck and wide-eyed marvelling at the hundreds of tomes lining the walls of the small shop. A whispered "Oh Holy Light," reached Ryndan's numb ears as she took a tentative step forward, almost as if she were scared to disturb the sanctity of the Scribe's Emporium. There were a handful of other people in the shop already browsing, some squinting at some books, others carousing the shelves and another on a ladder high up in the rafters replacing librams.

He caught the eye of a figure beyond the counter and nodded.

Cersae on the other hand had moved more than a few steps away from him and had ventured towards the closest section. He kept behind her to stay in her company, but far away enough as to not crowd her.

Ryndan himself was fascinated. Not by the leather bound tomes with their aged pages, but by the woman in front of him extended one small hand to touch each spine, whispering the names to herself as delicately one might a prayer as she fell into a world of parchment and ink. Her head would tilt this way and that to read some of the faded titles and she kneeled and stretched tall to see some of the others in her height range. If she noticed his presence, she didn't say anything, simply cherishing the bonding she and the books were undergoing. It was a holy thing, of that Ryndan had no doubt, and to him he could clearly see that this was her passion. This was Cersae at home, at peace and it warmed him like no fire could.

She turned to him without warning, almost careening into him despite his effort to keep a respectable distance between them. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed and she was beaming.

"Oh Ryndan, this is amazing! How did you ever find this place!" taken aback by her query and excited manner he stuttered at her that it was recommended by invitation. Delighted she turned back to the shelves and even ventured to take a tome from its resting place but was cut short as someone bumped into her hard causing her to lose her balance. Ryndan's reflexes caught her under her arms before she hit the floor and a repeated apology came their way.

"Oh I do apologise! Cannot see a blasted thing without my eye –glasses!" a gruff voice came from an even gruffer face when they looked up. He offered Cersae a hand to get up and she accepted, clearly a little shaken. "My," the man said, "aren't you pretty?" Ryndan hovered back watching the interaction. He was older than them both, a salt-and-pepper beard on his chin and there were the beginnings of hard lines on his tanned face. A dark robe covered the bulk of his body, though he was not taller than Ryndan. He still held her hand, talking platitudes and making a comment or two about the book she was about to read.

"An excellent author, makes some fine points on the subject of percolation versus manual stirring in the alchemy business. Strong argument for one being better for elixirs and the other method for potions." A cough was heard behind the robed man and they turned to see a bespectacled draenei woman not-so-subtly demanding his attention. He released Cersae's hand before sudden cough assaulted him. "Well, that's just my two pennies anyway. Apologies for the fall once again," he said once he collected himself, before walking away to talk in low tones with the draenei.

Cersae was a little bewildered by the event but otherwise unbothered as she turned to the book he mentioned and opened it up, scanning the contents. Ryndan managed to catch the eye of the man a half hour later before they left and he nodded solemnly. That was all Ryndan needed to know.

With what sounded like a sad whine from his companion, Ryndan and Cersae left the shop although they were not as alone as they had been entering the emporium. A brown paper covered book was ensconced in Cersae's arms and she clutched the purchase to her like a newborn, very content with the contents. Cersae, unknowing their destination to be such a haven, had not had the forewarning to bring her purse and so Ryndan offered to purchase the very tome the man had recommended to her as an apology gift for running late that day. She would have none of it but he bought it anyway, taking a prideful delight in being the one to make her smile shyly like that. He noted that she liked books and seemed to favour journals on Alchemistry and the likes. Merrily they retraced their route, rejoining the main thoroughfare and chatting about the sites they saw- children throwing snowballs at important looking people, an acrobat juggling fire batons, traders shouting out about their wares and other things. Once or twice, Ryndan reflexively placed his palm to the middle of her back to steer her out of the way of an idler before resting it there indefinitely as the crowds became thicker.

Their pace was slowed, the snow making for slippery tread and a rogue patch of ice sought to threaten them with descension to the pavement. Luckily the only casualty was the tome flying from Cersae's arms as for the second time that night, Ryndan caught her in his own very nearly losing his own balance in the making. Awkwardly he managed to pull them upright, Cersae's boots holding little grip on the ice as she clutched to him. They made their way in a tangle of legs and laughter towards a wall where he managed to grab the book with one arm and hold securely onto Cersae's light frame until they could stand independently. Leaning onto the wall they laughed until their sides hurt. Cersae's breath came in short, frozen cloudbursts as she clutched her stomach, one bare hand still gripping onto his forearm for support. Eventually she eased up and he watched amused as her cheeks flushed redder than they had earlier and her eyes crinkled in glee.

Their eyes locked and her smile faded slowly.

He could deny the urge to press his lips to hers in that moment all he liked, but he would be labelled a liar if he did. Huddled against a wall, his body shielding hers, the intimacy was their own made and no one else could intrude on it. He searched her eyes in askance, but she moved first. A soft kiss was granted on his rough cheek and she lingered there for a moment and no more. Dumbly he watched her settle back on her feet from tip-toe.

"Thank you for today, Ryndan. I – I haven't felt so happy in a long time." Her gaze was bold and honest and the paladin found himself struggling to maintain composure under such a gaze, feeling his face flush in embarrassment and wonder. "I've always loved books-" she ever so gently removed the tome from his grip, clutching it tight to her body once again. "And it's like being home again. This- this tome, it reminds me of some of the conversations Edmund and I used to have and it's nice to think of happy memories for once, not- well, not the bad ones." Her eyes lowered to the package as she gingerly checked to make sure it wasn't damaged through the wrapping.

He had forgotten about Edmund, he had to admit. The recent weeks in her company had shown him a side of her he was glad to know and if this was what she was like before Turning then he wasn't surprised by the knowledge that this man had fallen for her strong, innocent charm. He retained a grimace, grateful to be hidden in partial shadow.

"I am very glad to have been a part of this evening, and I hope to hear more about the arguments between percolation and manual stirring by the next time we meet," he stated in partial jest. She grinned at him, evaporating most of his feelings of defeat.

"I'll be sure to read up thoroughly to give you all the fine points- Ryndan." She stopped suddenly, a very serious expression washing over her. He was alert immediately, pulling away from her to search their surroundings.

"Oh stop that and look!" she was pointing to  _him._

"Cersae what are you-"

"Your arm! It's out of its sling!"

The words took a few moments to filter into his mind but when they settled he ventured a glance down. Sure enough his right arm was resting comfortably at his side much like his left. The sling was hanging awkwardly empty and a hope flared in him. Tentatively, he told his arm to lift.

And it did. It moved. At his command. Elation and excitement overtook him in an instant as he slowly tested the limits of his mobility. His shoulder was stiff with disuse but it wasn't out of the realms of improbability of recovery! His fingers flexed individually and together and he could rotate his elbow all the ways it should be able to. A cry of triumph left his throat and Cersae laughed with him. Caught up in his zest he swooped her up and spun her round twice before setting her down and pulling her to him.

"Oh what a wonderful night for us both!" she muffled. One arm snaked around his back and tugged on him close, the book sandwiched between them. Ryndan pressed one chaste kiss to her headscarf and agreed wholeheartedly that yes, this was indeed a good night.


	51. Two Steps Back

The tavern was loud and smoke-filled but it served the purpose Ryndan wanted it for. Finally wading his way through the lively flock – most of whom reeked of some form of ale or beer- Ryndan finally found his quarry seated in a dark corner with a lonely tankard as his only company. Seating himself uninvited, Ryndan squinted through the drifting pipe smoke to look at the Baron.

"Walden you look dreadful."

Walden lifted his head to acknowledge his new company. The skin across his cheek had deteriorated completely, showing a gaping hole into his mouth and throat. Many yellowed teeth were evident in the dim light through it and they moved visibly when he spoke.

"Death'll do that to you, Dan." Ryndan grimaced out of sympathy for the man. He'd not seen him properly since leaving Naxxramas, his recovery taking precedence over everything else.

"How have you been?"

Walden regarded him silently before taking a draft of his tankard. Some of the liquid spilled out of the hole but Walden paid it no heed. "Pretty shit, if I'm to be honest with you. Something changed in Naxxramas. I've never felt my age before, Dan, but by the Dark Lady I'm feeling it now in my Undeath."

"Is there anything we can do?"

"Unlikely, not unless you can cure this Forsaken curse," Walden spat bitterly. His eyes now adjusted to the darker corner, Ryndan could see that the Baron's clothes were dishevelled and dirty- something Walden never used to let happen. Ryndan was only a little surprised by his friend's deterioration. As a paladin he was well aware of the history of the Forsaken curse, and it had always been expressed that they knew there was no cure and no way to reproduce more without subjecting others to the Curse- and that was an impossibility since anyone with such a will lacked the means to make it come about. The Forsaken knew they were a dying race- literally- but for Ryndan to finally see it come to fruition via his own friend, it struck a chord in Ryndan that the paladin had been trying to keep still from resonating since Naxxramas.

Whether it was the expectation of this development or the numbing of his senses since the raid, he wasn't sure, but he was grateful that the shock wasn't as hard-hitting as it could have been were he unprepared for this eventuality.

"I am afraid I hold no such antidotes, but I was wondering if you'd like to accompany myself and Prelate Dawnstrider to an important meeting." Walden's brow rose high in curiosity. "It's about Cersae," Ryndan elaborated.

"Cersae? You've seen her?"

"Yes, I've spent quite a bit of time in her company as of late in fact." A brief image of holding her in his arms momentarily flashed in his mind's eye from only earlier that evening. "Have you not seen her upon your return from Naxxramas?" Ryndan was surprised. True, Cersae had made no mention of them meeting, Ryndan assumed that Cersae would have asked about Walden if she had not seen him since arriving in Dalaran. The absence of her concern for their mutual friend indicated that they had seen each other at least.

"No, I have not," he replied laconically. "The Society have kept me busy with things I cannot speak freely about here since I arrived." He paused, taking another messy draft of his drink. "Is she well?"

"She is making excellent progress in her recovery. You should visit- she would love to see you. You probably wouldn't recognise her in fact. She looks  _healthy_ , Walden. Lynara's healing is working a treat and then some on her. We're very lucky to know such a skilled healer."

"Is that so? I shall have to pay my gratitude to this healer then on behalf of a concerned guardian." Yellow eyes scrutinised Ryndan closely. "So this meeting- who is it with, specifically?"

"A few months ago, back in Valgarde, I spoke with a woman named Anchorite Yazmina about Death Knights and their origins. She directed me to a Warlock within Dalaran who may be able to aid us. I was set to go and meet him about two months ago but a newsbearer from Wintergarde warned us of the arrival of Naxxramas and I had to put my visit on hold. Today I managed to track down the Warlock from the address Yazmina supplied me with and arrange a meeting to see him about Cersae. He agreed- begrudgingly- on the basis that he owes Yazmina a favour and this is him repaying his debt otherwise he wouldn't even look at me, I reckon."

"Interesting, I could probably find out the debt if I was piqued enough," Walden drawled, a rare gleam shining in his eyes.

"Not just now, it's not of import. What is of import is that he needed to see Cersae, so I took her this afternoon to the bookstore he owns-"

"Oh I bet she just loved that."

"Like a child in a toy store, Walden. It was a beau-brilliant sight to see for sure. It was like a-" Ryndan stopped before going further. This wasn't something anyone- especially Walden- need to catch wise to. He cleared his throat. "He managed to get contact with her and I'm meeting him later tonight after his store closes. You're Cersae's oldest friend here, surely you'd like to hear what he has to say on how we can help her break free from this curse?"

Walden didn't jump straight away at the chance like Ryndan imagine he might. For all the Baron was sophisticated and collected most of the time, he was also a sly, jumpy character who leapt at the most ripe opportunities. Ryndan thought this was one of those. Eventually he replied.

"Yes, I think I shall attend and hear what this Warlock has to say for himself." Mort made to stand before indicating back to Ryndan. "Do you want a drink before we leave?"

"No, thank you. I'm abstaining for the meanwhile." Though he had been longing to steal one swig of the contents of the lone tankard but he kept his hands tightly clasped. He knew of others turning to alcohol and other substances to stay their nightmares but it was a lose-lose situation in the end.

"Indeed? Any particular reason?"

"Part of my decommission conditions," Ryndan lied smoothly not wishing to divulge any information about his state of mind the last few weeks. Despite the rapid improvements and lessening nightmares over the last few days most notably, he was still suffering more than he'd like and it was too private to share. "I'm officially off duty until cleared for a clean bill of health. No alcohol falls under that category."

"Once again, sucks to be you Dan. Vows of Chastity, Poverty, Sobriety…makes me wonder if you're living at all."

* * *

Lynara met them at the exit to the alleyway where the store resided that Cersae and Ryndan had only been in a few hours prior. The snow was falling fast and thick now, the three pairs of boots crunching softly as they walked. Like Ryndan, Lynara's cloak was drawn tight around him, a cowl donning his head attempting to keep in as much heat as possible. After greeting him fondly, Ryndan introduced him to Walden only to find they had conversed once or twice in the necropolis. Pleased, Ryndan then went into detail of that day's revelations with Ryndan's arm. He allowed Lynara to perform simple exercises to test the limb's capabilities but drew the same conclusions that Ryndan did- it was functioning well, just needed to build up strength again. He wanted to do a few more elaborate tests tomorrow, Ryndan was told, so be prepared for a strenuous visit. Happy with Lynara's mutual prognosis, they awaited the chiming of of the bells to indicate the hour before entering up to the shop.

A sharp rap on the door marked 'CLOSED' granted them entrance and the man from earlier greeted them. He was still garbed in the same robe but the semi-pleasant façade he held with Cersae was dropped in all pretence.

"Didn't know you were bringing company," he aimed to Ryndan specifically, dark eyes peering from underneath bushy, black eyebrows.

"Cersae's guardian and healer- I hoped they could provide useful insight, if that is well with you Sir?"

Garrick, as he was introduced in Yazmina's letter, grumbled at him and led him through the now-empty shop. The lanterns were dimmed and the pages silent as they strode past towards a room in the back.

"Oh yes, I imagine she had a grand old time in here," Walden mumbled looking around. Lynara was in a similar state of awe, appreciating the academic knowledge within reach of his fingertips, but was still first to reach the door being held open by the shop owner.

"Ladies first," Garrick indicated slightly-politely to Lynara. Ryndan's brother-by-brother-in-law chuckled and walked through into a room with a table and chairs, accompanied by a well-lit fire.

"Much obliged, sir." This earned Lynara a suspicious look and narrowed eyes from Garrick before he commented, "Catch many folk out like that do you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

The Warlock never answered because as they made to seat around the table the bespectacled draenei from earlier bustled in with a tea tray and set it down in the centre. Her common was heavily accented but highly fluent and a pleasure to listen to. Efficiently she made sure all were taken care of, offering sugar and milk in their beverages – Walden declined- and asking if anyone wanted food.

"Begone woman! I'm in the middle of business- take your tea parties elsewhere with your feminine fancies!" Garrick barked at her and even though the two elves winced, she did not. The lady- Neesa- didn't bat an eyelid and instead smiled sweetly at the older man.

"Of course, call if you need anything." And she left, but not before announcing that she was setting some soup on to heat. Walden chuckled, quietly commenting on her 'spunk', as he called it.

"Try being around her all day, a bloody nightmare if you ask me, like all womenfolk," Garrick sneered but taking a testing sip of his hot tea nevertheless. "Amen," Walden agreed.

"Right, down to business then. The sooner this is done with the sooner that blasted Yazmina can stop lauding over me." He looked to Ryndan directly across the table. "Your girl, you're correct that she is a Death Knight and there is powerful necromancy at work within her, but it is very weak. Very weak. And strange. It's nothing I'm used to."

"And how can we trust your credentials, Master Warlock?" Walden leered, leaning forward and resting on the tabletop. Ryndan sent Walden a warning look but he was pointedly ignored and instead smirked at Garrick.

"You can shut your trap for one, Undead. Your kind is taint enough as it is in my shop and home and it's a courtesy I even let you in. Now keep your mouth closed unless you have something to contribute to this conversation." Evidentially his credentials were not up for question but it was the only lead Ryndan had in the area. He turned back to Ryndan.

"Now, I know a lot about souls and how to manipulate them and because of this knowledge I know what a soul feels like. Your girl's soul is in a very strange place as far as I could tell. By holding her hand I was granted an intimate- albeit quick- look at it and there's something odd about the whereabouts of her soul." He paused, thinking hard. "From what I could tell it seems trapped. In a purgatory of some sort unable to move back towards her, and unable to pass over. Something is holding it forcibly and it's putting a great deal of strain on the girl."

"Her soul?" Ryndan ventured, carefully choosing his words. "I- that is, I'm not terribly versed on souls. They're something of a blank area for me, how vital is a soul to live?"

"Medically speaking," Lynara answered, holding his cup between both hands, no doubt to warm them up, "the soul has nothing to do with physical life. That being said, there is a clear correlation between mental health and physical health," he gave Ryndan a pointed look and knew he was referring to his just-healed arm. "Spiritually, I'd say that a soul has everything to do with living. Souls provide vitality and being in ways that simple blood and air cannot."

"Well spoken, Master Elf," Garrick appraised, looking thoughtful.

"I'm not saying it's non-existent, especially if it's you two saying that it's there, but I've not seen or heard any evidence of a soul in anything I've experienced. I've seen men and women die in less than an instant and nothing supernatural happens thereafter apart from they stop breathing and other less pleasant side effects."

"Well you wouldn't see anything supernatural, would you? It's the most natural thing in the world to do- is to die," Lynara supplied.

"Not childbirth?"

Garrick interjected. "Not quite. Only females of the species can bear children and even then not every one can or does. However every living entity in the universe dies eventually."

Ryndan nodded in understanding, but he was no clearer on the existence and understanding of the soul and its place in Cersae's troubles.

"What about the glorious Forsaken?" Walden spake at the Warlock, evidently trying to irritate the man but for what reason, Ryndan could garner no logic other than to be a pain. Surprisingly, Garrick answered him.

"Forcibly tethered to your own rotting corpses. The very act of doing so is accelerating the rot despite the semi-resurrected status you possess. You will not maintain this state for very long and your race will die out."

Walden jeered and muttered, "tell me something I don't know. We have teams working around the clock attempting to find a workaround. There were plants and organic matter gathered in Naxxramas but the study of it has come to naught. Combined with other failed experiments I have to believe that there's an answer elsewhere- can souls be transferred then, perhaps?"

The Baron became the subject of analysis from under Garrick's direct gaze. "No, you cannot. One soul per body for that is the Law of Nature. Even if there were a way, you would not be told by me."

"You are a charming fellow, aren't you? You see, I think you lie for I have heard rumour that Arthas is not in fact Arthas alone, and is holing up with someone else in that crazy melon of his."

"Arthas Menethil and the Lich King are not subjects I am willing to discuss on the basis that I know nothing on it. Even as an ex-Warlock, not even I ventured into that territory of research. Like I said, Nature does not allow it and these atrocities have consequences."

Walden scoffed at their host. Ryndan drank his hot tea instead, fighting the urge to kick him.

"You speak as if Nature has rules."

Garrick sharply snapped at him. "Of course She does. You have seen the other side of Death and you don't believe so? We mortals can harness great- and terrible- power, but we cannot control nature. Any attempt is gifted with dire consequences. Chaos is the natural order of things. You can try to tidy it up, bend it to your will, but in the end She  _will_  undo it."

Ryndan was slightly agape at the tirade. "'She'?" He asked.

"Nature. The Universe. The Macrocosm, take your pick- She is the Mother of All, The Mater Prime. She has her own agenda and it is  _Entropy_."

Ryndan had to take a breath. The Warlock- for he was not a storekeeper of a simple book shop right now- was fanatic in his deliverance and Ryndan could see why. He spoke truths Ryndan never had time to dwell on. Garrick, Ryndan estimated, was perhaps in his late forties or early fifties going by human ageing standards. His black hair, tied with a thong at the back of his head, was streaked with occasional grey and the same held for the hair on his chin which indicated a good age, but past prime. Either that or this man had  _seen_  some things. All of this equated to Ryndan respecting what the man was talking about- for he knew what he was discussing without a reason of a doubt.

"So," Ryndan continued, "What does this have to do with Death Knights- and Arthas?"

Garrick leaned deeply into his highback chair- Ryndan momentarily missed his own back in Cersae's chamber. "Even Arthas cannot fully control Undeath. Your girl is in a state of limbo as I said before. But I did feel something- she is fighting back against His will and I'll tell you one more thing." He smirked a little. "She's winning."

Ryndan's heart soared and a released breath from Lynara's direction indicated the same relief felt.

"It's a game of tug of war," Garrick went on, "and she is straining against he motionless Ruler of the Scourge. Eventually the rope will give way and she will break free. It's then that she will fall- and hard." He took a long sip of his tea.

Lynara started first, not liking his matter-of-fact tone. "What do you mean by 'fall'?"

Garrick looked between the three men over his cup before setting it down seriously. "You cannot expect her to survive this ordeal, surely? It will take all of her energy and more to break the Will and in the end the tether was the only thing keeping her alive. Without it she'll be dropped mercilessly and she will stumble, trip and fall into Death. The Universe does not like to be tampered with and your friend should be dead by all means as it is. There are scars and wounds on her body that I could feel through a simple handshake- and I was  _feeling_  them. For that to happen in such a short connection…they're beyond fatal."

The startled silence didn't last a moment.

"No- there has to be something we can do! She's responding so well to Lynara's treatment and is even looking like a semblance of a- of a human being for Light's sake!" Ryndan cried, nearly rising to his feet. A gentle hand from Lynara on his forearm calmed him enough to sit back. Of course it's not Garrick's fault, he's just the messenger. The messenger bearing news that Ryndan wasn't expecting to hear.

Walden spoke up, "Is the healing process painful for her?" Ryndan turned to Lynara awaiting the answer. Cersae never spoke of pain, just the results. Under the expectant gazes, the priest shifted uncomfortably.

"Yes, it is," he admitted. "It was easier in the beginning because she was unconscious, but now it's agony. Even though she's healthier than I've ever seen her, it still bears her great pain to undergo my prayers. I fear that it will reach the point where I cannot do more in fear of causing more harm than good."

"She is still tethered to Arthas," Walden said. "That will be why The Light is painful and grievous to her body despite its healing capabilities. Her soul is in limbo therefore she isn't wholly alive, but neither is she dead. She herself is in a limbo in this world, as is her soul in another. Because of this inanimate tissue, the power mustered to mend her wounds will become more demanding and tortuous, I imagine." Ryndan listened carefully, appreciating the seriousness his friend adopted all of a sudden in light of the bad news.

"Why is is that The Light affects the Undead so? I mean, physically speaking? I've not really ever understood it on a simple level."

"There's a theory that it's to do with the Unholiness of the Forsaken and Undead," Lynara answered thoughtfully. He was paying special attention to the space in front of him, as if reading a book no one else could see. "The Light, so Holy and Gracious, forcibly reacts against the very opposite of itself which is manifested on the physical plane by the Forsaken and Scourge."

"You are half-correct, Master Elf, " Garrick said again.

"Half?"

"The Universe does not hold 'Holy' and 'Unholy' in her spiritual vocabulary. There exists only 'Is' and 'Is Not'. I don't mean to spit on your vocation, Sir Priest, but that's what it is. The Forsaken were not a part of her original plan, I would wager, and therefore you are pushing that is supposed to exist- that power which you call 'The Light'- against something that is not supposed to exist- the recreation of Life in the same body. It has been attempted before and will no doubt again, but to do so is to anger Nature."

"The Forsaken have yet to be punished by this mysterious force you so revere, Warlock." Walden snidely commented. Garrick sneered in return, crooked teeth flashing in the firelight.

"Your race, as I sated before, is set to die out because you cannot reproduce- and the whole world knows and does nothing to aid you. Are you saying that mass-extinction is not a suitable punishment for your very existence?"

Ryndan paled at the implications so he could only imagine the white fury and desperation Walden must be feeling.

"But we did not create ourselves!" The Baron declared, slamming one fist on the table causing the crockery to rattle.

Garrick shrugged. "Why would the Universe care about intentions and blame? You are the natural ones, therefore you are eradicated by your own design flaw.  _That_  is the beauty of the Universe, Forsaken."

The three men sat in quiet contemplation of his words, letting them sink in. For two of them, it was just a horrifying theory to wrap their heads around. For the third, it was a final death sentence.

"Wait- in Naxxramas, there was a paladin. Sir Zeliek he was called. He was undead and yet wielded The Light without causing undue harm unto himself," Ryndan spoke up.

"How do you know about that?" Lynara inquired.

"Commander Eligor Dawnbringer told me. He attended the first assault on Naxxramas two years ago and barely survived. Apparently Zeliek was under his command and MIA-assumed-dead."

Lynara blanched, nearly dropping his cup. Placing it carefully back on the table, he turned to Ryndan, his face tight. "That's atrocious. But that does explain the fervour the Alliance displayed in running to his corner of the chamber…to put him out of his unholy misery."

"Oh it's not all that bad," Walden said weakly. Ryndan threw him a long side glance in worry. If it was possible for a corpse to look tired, the Baron was certainly achieving it. He turned back to Garrick.

"But what about Cersae, what can we do to help her?"

"Maker her final days as easy as possible. When she is strong enough to break free, she will lose all that has stopped her from dying these past years and it will catch up with her." Despite the gruff demeanour, Garrick's apologetic tones were not lost on Ryndan, and he was grateful for the understanding. "The body is not supposed to undergo such a transformation and it will take its toll. Even in the unlikely event that she survives, she will not be able to live comfortably. She would be a shell, but I cannot see that ever happening."

"You cannot know this for sure," Ryndan declared, looking for a thread of hope in all of this.

"Sadly, I do and you only have to trust my word in that respect because I will say no more."

Ryndan slouched back into his chair and rubbed his hands wearily over his face.

"Lynara, what's her current progress with healing?"

"She's eating a little, digesting it too. She's gaining weight, her mind is healing a little too," he reported quietly. Ryndan threw his head back and examined the dark, flickering shadows on the ceiling. His mind supplied him with images of her from a few hours ago and he swore out loud.

"She's breathing too- I didn't even notice at the time. She's bloody breathing."

"I have to stop the healing sessions, if I push her too close to the edge she'll-"

"Yeah. Stop them for now- but don't tell her why. Just say that she's made enough progress and you think she's fine now. I don't want to cause her undue worry, not when she's finally enjoying herself."

A look passed between the two elves and Lynara nodded in understanding. "I'll do that then."

Ryndan turned back to Garrick. "What if we kill Arthas first? Would that free her without harming her?"

"No. In fact I very much believe that if Arthas ever dies, any Death Knight and Scourge not slain by then will drop en masse."

And there they were, back to square one. Unknowingly, Garrick had echoed something Ashwood had said to him many weeks and months ago at Westgarde.

"I see. Thank you, sir, your insight has been most useful and you may have bought us more time for her."

Mutually declaring the meeting over, the four men stood and left the shop. Neesa saw them off, offering a quick bowl of broth to which they politely declined but promised to come again to try. The hour was late and they had too much weight on their minds at the moment. At the front door, his friends leaving a little ahead of him already having bade their farewells, Ryndan shook the man's large, calloused hand.

"I am sorry I cannot bear better news. She was a lovely girl, I could tell that much. No one with a bad soul treats books like kin, and she revered them like-"

"Like her own children, yes. She daren't let go of that tome as we went home today," Ryndan smiled fondly. Garrick nodded.

"Good luck, Master Firesworn."

"Thank you Sir. And to Yazmina also, for introducing me to you. May I be so bold as to ask what the debt incurred was between you two?" For a moment Ryndan thought that Garrick might deck him.

"Bloody woman thinks she can lord over me, but no more! The damned debt is paid," he muttered. "You see that beautiful woman behind me bustling about pretending not to listen into this conversation?" Ryndan saw Neesa smile sheepishly from her not-so-conspicuous busy-bodying nearby. "I love her and like a fool I only went and married her, didn't I? And it wouldn't have happened if her sister, Yazmina, hadn't introduced me to her. I ended my dire career as a Warlock and took up shop as a bloody book-seller and now look at me," he patted his firm stomach through his robe. "Getting fat, ain't I? Bloody womenfolk, more trouble than they're worth I'm telling ya."

Ryndan found himself agreeing for the first time in his adult life, Ryndan understood what it was like to be troubled by a woman.

And it was hell.


	52. Faith

"Luciya, I'm worried about you."

The object of my worries didn't seem nearly so concerned by her garish purple cheek as I did, instead offering me a toothy smile only to wince at the action.

"Don't be, this?" she indicated to her shiner, "just a client getting hot and heavy is all. It was expected with this particular client before I went ahead with it, so don't muss that pretty face of yours with a frown."

I stayed silent, observing her. She had entered my room this morning with a notable limp and bruised wrists poorly hidden by her threadbare jumper. She obviously knew how she looked, one half of her face scarred and rough, the other tender and bruised. People probably stared at her on her way here but thought nothing more of it given that she was in a hospital- people weren't  _supposed_  to look healthy here.

"Can you defend yourself? Do you need a weapon or- or want to learn self-defence?" If she said 'yes', then I had no idea what I was going to do from that point onwards but I'd think of something. I just wanted to help.

"Cers-"

"Are you able to say 'no' to these kind of clients, Luce? I really don't like seeing you like this," I pressed. I think I got a brief surprised look from her but it was hard to tell under the palette of umber and plum, her copper eyes near-slits with swelling. I've never openly said anything about her profession, just went with it because why not, so my outspokenness about it now was new for both of us.

"Cers," she admonished me gently, riling me a bit. "I'm fine, honestly." A pause. "But thank you, I appreciate the worry." She flashed me another grin and flexed her arm, patting the limb's meagre muscle. "Big strong girl, me! I can take care of myself, promise."

She was clearly set on continuing like this and there was little I could do where she didn't want help. Perhaps Bart could help me instead. I made a mental note to consult with him this afternoon if he came with Lynara. Nodding solemnly, I granted her one final look of 'you better' before freeing the worry from my face. The conversation was finished with an expectant air of 'now what to talk about' when it was swung on to me. I wasn't terribly surprised, she was good at deflection.

"How are you feeling anyway? Any worse for wear since Naxxramas?"

Shaking my head, I felt the headscarf loosen a little and I shifted it back in place. "No, not really. It's surreal for me, you know? I don't remember much of it. I think I've dreamt about it, but it evades me when I come to." It wasn't a whole lie. Those dreams were memorable enough for sure, but they seemed like exaggerated fears and scenes- constant screaming, skeletal figures marching, dancing rune blades and blue eyes cruel with laughter. There was nothing solid but it was enough to leave me in a cold sweat some nights. Since Ryndan changed his visits to afternoons and evenings only, I woke up these nights alone and shaky, sometimes seeing Mort seated in the chair only to be wiped away by my palms as I cling to wakefulness. I had yet to see him since that one night.

Part of me wished he would just arrive and fall through with his threats. That same part of me wanted to spill all of the secrets, the lies and the how-it-all-happeneds to someone just to goad him into action. The constant waiting, the anticipation and  _fear_  was the worst. But then I would look to the alchemy book on my table and recall Edmund. And how I hadn't found him yet and so held my tongue.

Mort had said something about annals cataloguing all travellers whenever they entered and exited the major towns and cities. It had been nagging at me and I was waiting for an opportunity to visit the local offices to seek the information. I was growing stronger day by day, my thoughts coming clearer and my bones feeling sturdier. I was still on a simple diet, but it was steady and nutritious and the benefits of it were telling, to me at least. I was sleeping- albeit fitfully, but sleeping nonetheless. There was clarity in my mind now where a haze once resided and I wasn't even aware of its looming presence until I drew focus. Things started to  _matter_  now. Before, with hindsight, I was alone in myself, only caring for me. Now I was around people who I not only liked their company, but physically mattered to me and I found myself worried about their own welfares outside of my visits with them. Out of my small group, Luciya was causing me the most trouble. I hadn't wanted to say much to her on the subject before but when she walks into my small chamber looking no better than a thoroughly used training dummy, I had decided to take action. Efforts evaded, however, I could only follow her wishes and focus on other things. Like my growing affects.

My satchel sat untouched in the corner, I had no reason insofar to look in it, all of my meagre clothes folded neatly by the window. The washbowl and cloth were part of the room but the bar of scented soap was a gift from Lynara. Most of the things that had come my way in the last few weeks were. Charity, he called it, for those in need and apparently I fell under that category. I'd accepted these gifts with a shy smile and other times they just appeared without my knowledge. It was nice.

Luciya's mini-library had dwindled when I told her to put them back and bring decent material in and even though she had thrown her head back in laughter, the pile had dissipated between visits. There were two books in this room that were mine. The alchemical one that Ryndan bought me and the journal gifted to me in the past by Edmund. I hadn't read it, not expecting anything to come of it, if I were honest. I had since moved it from its position behind the bedside table, electing to keep it on my person when I started to leave my room daily with Ryndan. If Mort ever took the time to seek my room out when I was absent, I didn't want him coming across it. It didn't stop multiple scenarios in my head of him sneaking in through the night, slitting my throat, or choking me or –

"Cers? You alright there? Where did you go?"

Now it was Luci's turn to look concerned. "Sorry," I said. "Daydreaming."

"Hmm. Do you know what I think? We need to get out at some time. I want you to meet Jerry, you'd love her." A mischievous smile transformed her battered face and I felt my gut twisting in sight of it. Luciya and scheming never went well together.

And so I learned of 'Jerewyn', or 'she-who-hates-to-be-referred-to-by-her-actual-name' and spent the day laughing. Luciya parted with a fond goodbye and I couldn't stay my worry that the next time I see her she'll be sporting a cast or worse, she won't return through my door and I won't know where she is.

So when Lynara and Bart did visit later that afternoon, I found myself spilling my concerns to them in an effort to help her. Lynara wore a grave look and listened attentively but it was Bart who was the real subject of my plea, who I was placing my trust in- and I was let down. I knew things weren't great between the two of them but did he have to look so bored? I expected immediate action and outrage, not a frown.

* * *

Bart was distracted upon their return. Cersae's description of Luciya was troubling but not worthy of his time and efforts. She was more than capable of handling herself, he had witnessed (though luckily not experienced) it first hand. Her lithe frame gave the false impression of weakness, but she could choke-hold a grown man when necessary. And the needles she kept on her person were more than enough to ward off unwanted advances, so why was she so beaten?

A few ideas ran themselves through his mind, each one worse than the last and making him scowl even further. Disgusted with himself for even delving into such a train of thought with her, he shook himself and drew attention elsewhere. Like the distracted elf shuffling alongside him.

They walked slowly through the streets, now headed to a small tavern near Bart's residing inn. Whenever Bart accompanied Lynara to visit Cersae, for it was not every day if the priest had other pressing matters to attend, their routine fell into allotting themselves an extra hour afterwards to eat. Lynara had fed little in Bart's presence and his weight was slowly dropping- something he couldn't really afford and he was sure that without that robe, Lynara was even skinnier than he appeared to be.

His concern for the priest was a transfer, Bart had long decided, since losing Luciya's company and companionship and since that day in the tailoring shop, Bart had waged between two feelings- spending time with the priest or dropping it entirely and favouring the presence of a bottle instead.

Lynara won out in the end but the bottle had made a very tempting argument.

He had found himself often thinking back to their first meeting- Lynara gathering Cersae in his arms and carrying her through Naxxramas, Bart at his side, axe at the ready and torch raised high. He had been in his element then- they both had. High on rush and urgency had they travelled through the haunting corridors of Naxxramas to the central bay and Bart had very disturbing feelings about those few moments before he stepped through the portal. He had not witnessed that level of intensity from priest's gaze since that day, but the tailoring shop had come close. Sometimes his wish for the priest's presence angered him, other times it soothed and the rest it baffled. He was just as friendly with Ryndan- whom he'd visited a few times with Lynara also, with his permission- but didn't crave his company nearly so much. Cersae was also a pleasant part of his day and he did enjoy watching her heal and grow. She was charming when they first met at Valgarde- all wide eyed and confused, but now she was just endearing. Her laugh was one of the most pleasing sounds he had heard recently and they had induced it today with a funny tale from Lynara's training days as a priest and even Bart had given a smile.

But there was something underlying in today's session. A tension that Cersae didn't seem to sense after she had calmed down from her torrent of worry about Luciya. A tightness was evident in Lynara's eyes, his smile a little too drawn in as he focussed on her. And then the rest of the hour passed by in a flurry of storytelling. Now free from Cersae's earshot, he addressed the elf about it when they were seated at the tavern, a jug of flavoured water planted on the table and a goblet of wine presented to the darker man.

"Why were you lying to Cersae today?" he asked smoothly, habitually pouring from the water jug and handing it to Lynara. Bart was rewarded with a sharp look of surprise that hardened into a gaze tense enough to rival that one from Naxxramas, though it was noticeably cooler. Lynara's own strife appeared to take hold in those moments, eyes searching his own gravely, before he settled on a decision.

And so Lynara spilled about a visit to a Warlock late last night.

Silence hung over them, the priest having had more time to digest the information and looking exhausted for having done so, whereas Bart was suspended between disbelief and fear. Neither won this time as logic wormed its head in and stated that it wasn't so bad since they were doing something about it. He was a little shocked as to how much he cared for the being of that young girl, however.

"But you're acting accordingly," he said carefully, both ignoring the plates that settled in front of them. Murmured thanks delayed Lynara's reaction but he did answer.

"Yes, we are, but it doesn't settle my nerves any. I'm not even sure if this is the right move. Shouldn't we consult with her on this? It is her life, after all, surely she gets a say in whether we help or hinder her?"

"That's not really my place to say. Your intentions are good but you know what they say about those," he paused, taking a hearty mouthful of his baked potato. It was deliciously hot and burned his tongue. Swallowing, he waved his fork at his company before eating again, "That's what you holym'n are for, isn't it? Deliberating such moral dilemmas as part of some daily ritual? Nothing like some difficult ethics to get the day started, eh?" His attempt at humour was washed down with a swill from the goblet and Lynara didn't even appear to have heard him.

"There's something else," Bart stated, setting his cutlery down and granting him his full attention. Another startled look from green eyes.

His mouth stopped and started several times before divulging anyway. "It's a selfish thing, really. Cersae's case is forefront in my mind but I find myself with my own…concerns." The topic was clearly straining the priest who had yet to even glance at his bowl of broth, favouring picking out minute details in the bare wall beside them. "I'm…having doubts," he started carefully, "about my faith."

Bart's brow shot skyward, least expecting this from Lynara and expecting even less that he would consult with  _Bart_  on the issue. Surely another cleric would be preferable to a prostitute- oh, Bart thought wryly, Lynara wasn't aware that was what Bart was. A moment's warring within himself decided that it was best not to tell him right now, not when he was already so vulnerable about …this. He swallowed the creeping shame with wine.

"I see, concerning what specifically? And why?" He thanked Elune for a steady voice.

"I have been thinking a lot about what the warlock said- about the Universe' idea of being." Bart nodded along, the conversation and details imprinted fresh in his mind and waited for Lynara to continue. It was slow, he was struggling to formulate his thoughts and Bart could only guess that this was a major contributor through the night to the bags beneath his eyes.

"He preaches the notion that there exists only 'Is' or 'Is not' and that anything outside that isn't real."

"As I understand it."

"And yet The Light- I wield it for healing and offensive purposes," his hands cradled in front of his chest, almost to contain what he was expressing. "I can feel it inside of me, pulsing, warm and there. Why would he say it doesn't exist when I experience it?" Desperation and fear churned in front of him.

Bart only listened, the words coming faster now as the priest drew himself into a small frenzy- for him at least. His head was going this way and that, trying to make sense of the thoughts he could only hear and blond hair was escaping from its plait.

"He said that there is no 'Holy' or 'Unholy' , what if he's right?" he continued, voice climbing a little higher. "Then what do I do? After all of this, what if my vocation for most of my life has been dedicated to something that isn't even real?"

This wasn't just doubts, this was a  _crisis_. Staying practically level headed, Bart approached the subject delicately and stretched one hand out to him minimally across the table.

"Lynara, what have you done in the past- what, ten years of priesthood?"

"Just over twenty years, I entered the vocation when I was twelve."

That took him by surprise, this put the elf at thirty years his junior- the same age as Luciya. Fighting the urge to swear he pressed on.

"Right, so two decades of dedicating yourself to a just and good cause- regardless of what it was in the name of. You've done great and helpful things, have you not? Come to the aid and rescue of so many others?"

Lynara nodded slightly, frowning.

"And due to that, you have saved who knows how many lives. I saw you in Naxxramas, you are a force to be reckoned with when it comes to the lives of your peers." He paused, admiring the fragility of the moment and how it was resting on his words alone. "What I'm saying is regardless of why you joined, or what you think you serve by- in this case The Light- you have done so much good in the name of it that I can't see what leg your argument has to stand on. If The Light is 'real' then you've nothing to be concerned about. If it  _isn't_  real, then perhaps what it simply is is a metaphor for all the good deeds you do in its name. Maybe you  _make_  The Light,  _are_  The Light by your actions and words to all those around you. Nobody can take what you feel away from you, only you can. And that's what I believe faith should be about."

Religion and faith were not his forte and he actively avoided the subject in favour of more down-to-earth activities. He had never been so theological in all of his decades, but there was something troubling, upsetting, about seeing the steadfast man before him waiver to one side, his faith shaken and taking a blow. He may not believe himself, but why does that mean it shouldn't hold this kind of weight on this priest? This priest with the sun-touched hair and burning jade eyes that regarded him anew.

"I never thought of it like that."

Silence stretched between them, their gaze unbroken as one tried to adjust to a new line of thought and the other a new idea of faith.

"Thank you."

The words were sincere and meant. Bart forced himself not to flinch.

"I entered to help people, to travel and reach as many as I could. My brother was set to overtake my mother's business and I was free to do what I want. How simple it is to forget one's reasons for doing something." He smiled, genuinely and helped himself to his goblet, flooring Bart where he thought he was confident.

"We own a tailoring shop- or my mother and brother does, hence my knowledge in it- and one day, when I was young, a thief set upon us. He didn't make it far into the streets, abducted by the local guards, but a passing paladin in a black tabard with a shining crest interceded. He looked important and official and he must have been because the guards parted and allowed him to reside over the man. He spoke quietly with the thief, but I remember eavesdropping with burning curiosity." A nostalgic expression settled over Lynara's face, softening it with peace of mind. "He said to the thief, 'come with me and I can help you. You can be cared for and forgiven, not punished, for salvation was created for sinners' and I've never forgotten those words."

 _Salvation was created for sinners_. A noble sentiment, but a sentiment nonetheless, Bart thought sourly.

"Soon thereafter I made up my mind to enter the vocation and favoured priesthood over paladinship." He threw a cheeky grin to Bart who had listened in rapt silence. "Can you imagine me with a sword and armour? I wouldn't be able to get off the ground with this body!" he laughed and spread his arms wide.

His shoulders were broad but not bulked and combined with thin waist, he was most definitely not suited for armour like Ryndan was and the very image cracked a smile onto Bart's face as he agreed.

"A wise choice, I think. I wish I had as grand a tale as you, Master Priest, but alas I am a wanderer and rogue. I started out with nothing and have most of it left," he earned another laugh from Lynara, both content to have moved past the problem and they broke bread.

The pit of Bart's stomach churned and he had a feeling it wasn't due to his dinner. Forcing through a grimace, Bart vowed to ignore it.

* * *

The censer swung rhythmically and Ryndan watched it over his folded hands. The cleric holding it was chanting and walking in a dreamlike way, engrossed in his duty and spreading the familiar scent wherever he tread in the small chapel.

It wasn't a large building. It was intimate and unadorned, the stained windows towards the back letting in little light. Candles were now lit, glowing softly in reverence for the holy place they illuminated. Rows of pews striped the church floor, only a few occupied by other kneeling people like himself. A mixture sat here- some praying softly under their breath. Others were chanting along quietly with the cleric and several others were merely silent. Sitting in one of the most distant pews from the altar, Ryndan was granted an entire view to the supplicants sharing the roof. There were three draenei, several humans, two other sin'dorei, one kaldorei and surprisingly a tauren and an orc seated separately. The tauren he vaguely recognised from Naxxramas and he didn't begrudge the man attempting to find peace of mind in some where like this following the raid.

It was partially the reason he was here himself.

Ryndan had actively avoided any kind of religious practice and form since the funerals, his distaste in the Crusade and what it stood for causing him unkind feelings in his gut. However, last night's revelations brought him back as a whim, the paladin yearning for familiarity, for security and comfort.

It was this small church he found in his wandering, wanting to free his mind from worries and pray for any kind of clarity and blessing to come his way. Expertly did his lips partake in benediction long-since memorised. Automatically did his knees sink to the wooden planks, knotting his hands together in front of his face to adopt a pose of prayer. And all too soon did comfort and warmth fill his chilled soul, the scented fumes enveloping him in an embrace, whispering 'welcome home'.

Time passed and so did his worries. One by one he brought them forward in his mind, panic and fear threatening to overtake and reacquaintance with his vows and guidance from years ago quietening them softly, smothering them into nothing. His knees ached, his back spasmed but the tension released in those hours was swallowed by the solemnity and privacy of the chapel in those few hours. The clarity he sought was making its way through, kissing each trouble and telling him that it will be all right. He will be well. He can move past this.

And Ryndan believed it.

Feeling mended in ways he didn't realise he was damaged, Ryndan straightened, knots in his back and numbness evident in places it had no business being. A curse nearly escaped his lips when he noticed the company kneeling immediately beside him, smirking at him beneath closed eyes.

"Sorry, didn't want to disturb you, you looked peaceful," Lynara whispered. Glancing around, Ryndan saw that the church was a little fuller than before, late night mass probably due to start soon.

"How long have you been here?" Ryndan hissed, though he was slightly amused.

"A while, I lost count after about four verses of that hymn."

Ryndan regarded the man beside him. Even in the dim light, bags were evident beneath his eyes and his cheeks were looking sharper than he'd like. The belt around his waist looked  _too_  small and was hanging too loosely for Ryndan's comfort at the base of his straight back and yet despite that Ryndan sensed an energy about the man that had been missing. An aura was now exuding from the priest and Ryndan, in his own good mood, found it a little contagious.

"You're in a silly mood tonight," he observed amusedly. Lynara flashed him a sidelong grin.

"Had a good day. I know last night was a little frightening, but I have a good feeling that we're doing the right thing now. We're not so much in the dark and we have The Light to thank for that." Ryndan was surprised. Lynara had never been one for too much religious spouting, the paladin simply observing that the priest wanted to do all of the charity and aid regardless of which religion it was for, so large was his heart, but this was something new.

"You're right, I had drawn a similar conclusion myself." Cersae's problem was not inescapable and he felt stronger now to tackle it, to research and do whatever possible. He could admit to himself that even if they could find a way to 'cure' her of her death knight-ism before…well, before… then they could possibly do the same to other knights, but that he was doing it for her regardless, hang the other knights. It was selfish and cruel but he had managed to filter his thoughts down to that one goal- save Cersae.

"Lynara, I've had a thought," he kept his voice low, hoping to not disturb the sanctity around them. "There was an incident, a few months ago in the catacombs of Utgarde, where I utilised The Light rather brutally in front of Cersae." He recalled her screams, claiming that it burned and it was tortuous and winced. Lynara was watching him attentively out of the corner of his eye, kneeling in prayer pose. "I wielded it quite strongly and afterwards we came across a dying man. Now, I can't vouch for it entirely, but I have a feeling that The Light was enough to weaken her Death Knight persona to bring humanity forth a little.  _She comforted a dying man_ , Lynara. I don't think she would have done it if I hadn't exposed her to The Light like that. It was like a barrier had dropped and stayed so until the connection to Arthas-" he whispered the name even lower, wondering if such talk was sacrilegious. "-Seeped its way back into her until she was as before. What do you think?"

His friend was silent while he ruminated over it, Ryndan's own thoughts haven run amok since the late hours of last night, desperate to find anything to help her before his mind had supplied him with that memory.

"It's an interesting theory. Since I've begun healing her," Lynara murmured in turn, "she has come out of her shell and this humanity you've described is more and more evident. I recall her at New Agamand. She was closed off and distrusting. Now she is social and caring and worrisome about her friends. This barrier you mentioned, it may have contained her. Perhaps her soul isn't so far off as Master Garrick has us believe." A swell of hope surged in Ryndan and he quashed it quickly, not wishing to count his eggs before they'd hatched. "Also," Lynara continued, "now that you mention it there was an incident in Venom Point." He trailed off, his brow furrowing deeply as he stared ahead of him. "We got into an argument when I realised her plans for the plague and how she was sabotaging it. She panicked, and it was almost like I could see the bondage Arthas has her in take control. She was going to go for me and I don't think it was in her control." Ryndan sucked in a breath, knowing what she looked like in that battle state of mind. "I smote her, Ryndan. I smote her with The Light to ward her off and it was like the chains within her, the strings controlling her just snapped and she came back to me. But then- then that undead  _friend_ of hers appeared and took off with her. I managed to follow them briefly and they were silent and tense until they left the encampment."

Lynara's face grew more severe as he turned to him fully. "Ryndan, she disappeared that day, entered Naxxramas- or was captured. What if- what if my smiting her weakened her enough to fall into a trap? What if that hell she went through in there is my fault?"

Ryndan placed one hand on his shoulder. There was a weariness in his eyes, a fatigue that no amount of sleep would sate. His guildmates had departed from Dalaran a few days ago to return to Durotar. Zul'khar's healing hadn't been progressing well despite Lynara's efforts and a witchdoctor and so they had left with sad goodbyes to seek help at home. Lynara volunteered to stay, feeling more useful here, but he knew that the priest was missing them fiercely. Coupled with the workload he had thrust upon himself in charity, Lynara was stretched to his limits and this was one more thing he needed to quell. "It wasn't your fault, Lynara. In fact, if she hadn't gone in we may never have been able to have healed her like we're doing now. She'd still be a full death knight, waning away by Arthas' power. She's never looked better in the months I've known her and that is your fault," he offered a small smile and was grateful to receive one in return. One pale hand patted his fondly and his eyes spoke volumes of gratitude. Content, they returned to their prayers as mass began to start, the rows mostly full around them now and familiar ritual took over.

A little while later, Ryndan decided he was finished with his reconciliation and made to move. A glance in Lynara's direction told him all he needed to know. Forehead resting heavily against folded hands, shoulders slumped and mouth slightly open, the priest was asleep, the last few week's burdens finally freeing themselves from his care. Ryndan smiled fondly and pressed one kiss into his hair. He was grateful for many things, and hoping that his friend could find peace and start to heal now was certainly one of them.

With a light heart and hope fluttering, Ryndan vacated the church surmising that it was a good decision of his today and that he should make a great many more of them in future, starting with getting recommissioned and back into his post as Lieutenant-Commander. He had a lot to accomplish now and he would be granted more freedom and power to achieve those goals surrounded by people he trusted and was trusted by.

He only prayed that Cersae could hold on that long.


	53. Poison

It was inevitable, his descent to here. It called to him, like a siren- dangerous and fatal, desperate for him to return to its poisonous embrace and consume him entirely.

And at this point in time, Bartheleus wasn't sure that that wasn't what he wanted.

It had been haunting him, since his arrival in Dalaran. There was a chip in his carefully constructed wall, a crack- miniscule and near invisible, but not negligible. He ached to touch it, to inspect it, to test it, but he feared it, he feared what would lie on the other side of that wall if it crumbled around him. His resolve had weakened day by day. Despite telling his mind over and over that they didn't need to go, they didn't have to return he had found his body gravitating of its own accord.

The entrance to the Dalaran Sewers leered at him, beckoning him in with hypnotic lure and like a fool he followed it.

The stench was tolerable, barely. The floor was soaked and slippery, something his careful footfalls had no trouble travelling. Vagrants and addicts littered the floor sporadically as he descended- poor guardsmen for an even worse off kingdom. For it was a kingdom. There were nobles and merchants, laws and rules, but they were so other-worldly to the kingdom overground that one would easily mistake it for crude and terrible chaos.

With practised steps deliberate and soft, he made his way into the underworld, entering the veins and arteries of Dalaran until he passed into the last chamber and gaining entry into the unhealthy, pulsing heart of the Underbelly.

His fanfare was cheers and arguments, cusses and whispered deals. The announcement of his arrival was unheard or uncared for as he sank into the biggest antechamber and sickly he felt himself slip into the familiarity surrounding him with far too much ease.

It was vibrant in its twisted way. An open tavern across the way made for loud gossip and easy corners that disallowed eavesdroppers. Dark shadows allowed for bargains and payments to go unchecked. A bordello made for easy satiation as the sellers flaunted their 'goods'. His eyes lingered on the whorehouse, nostalgia creeping upon him undesirably. He could see some of the strumpets lined up, undergoing scrutiny. A finely dressed woman slowly walked up and down inspecting each one, her laced veil hiding her face mostly from view but there was no hiding the intent that she possessed. These men and women were up for auction for her fancy, her intentions either lascivious or profitable- or both.

Sneering at the feeling of recognition creeping upon him, Bart turned away and headed towards the far end of the chamber. Tramps and beggars decorated his path, sleazing in their existence. Some appraised Bart as he walked by- there was no doubting the sense of being observed that prickled the back of his neck- but he pressed on, trusting in the cowl hiding his face and head to save his identity, especially in the likelihood of someone recognisable and most likely unfavourable. One doesn't make six decades on the planet living the way he had without pissing a few people off, to say the least. And now being in the hub of the most wretched scum and villainous sods in Northrend it really wasn't in his favour to not meet someone from his past. He was in a very fragile, precarious vulnerability being down here and there was something morbidly fascinating about this hidden exposure, being clandestine in a den of dormant foes.

At this thought a shuddering breath escaped him as he tried to calm his arousal.

There was a thrill that he found in danger, the possibility of being caught, of the potential for a  _discussion_  or worse. His time on the continent had been quietly spent by comparison to his old life in Stormwind- something he found a small blessing for, but recently in the last few months that had all been turned upside down. Something that he had suppressed awoke in Naxxramas. There was the fear, the alertness, the tension and anticipation that he had missed so much back in the Alliance Capital. In Stormwind, leaving your safety zone was a game, a game of not getting caught, of evasion and completing jobs. Eventually the whoring took over as primary trade but not by his choice. Northrend was supposed to have been his escape and yet he found himself worse off in ways, suffering withdrawal for some things he hadn't even realised he was dependent on. Lust for blood and physical contact had flared in him and he had desperately tried to stay away.

Instead he found himself observing a deathmatch in the arena below his feet.

Thrill reared again as he focussed on the bodies dancing around each other, attempting for openings. Five already lay scattered, incapacitated, unconscious or dead- four of them donning the same colours. Now it was three against one for the final cull and the dwarf was nearly shitting his pants- if he hadn't already. Two encircled the robed dwarf, one with a mighty axe and the other with a bloodied mace. A third 'Yellow' hung back, now seemingly disinterested in the last blows. Bart allowed himself to be swept up into the anticipation charging the air as they waited for the inevitable finishing blow. Backed into a corner, Last-Green-Standing watched with frightened eyes as he saw his life flash. Before the orc warrioress could lay her axe upon the jittering fool the dwarf cried out for a surrender, dropping to his knees and then fainting promptly in what Bart thinks to be an actual puddle of his own piss. The axe instead found its mark in a pile of crates, splintering like the audience's disappointment.

A fair crowd was watching through the grates, peering down and around the arena floor. Some street rats – no older than seven or eight, he would guess- were giggling, dropping stones through it hoping to catch someone out. Titters and jeers rippled around him as the referees accepted the truce and dirtily-clad 'medics' hastened onto the scene for immediate cleanup.

"Rooound four goes to the Yellows! Round Five in the Fives Bracket will continue in an hour! Stay prepped- Round Six of the Twos begins shortly! Can the reigning champs hold on to their title?" A goblin- several, in fact, stood atop a large stage seemingly orchestrating the entire thing. Idly, Bart wondered over and blended into the small mass at the base of the stage. Goblins were yelling out to the mob, another two at the back wiping and scoring off a chalkboard as new bids and bets were placed on the outcome of the next few matches. Even squinting, he couldn't make out any of the scrawl being written. Others were cashing in their winnings and one stupid moron had the brass to flaunt his prizes with a smirk and sneer to the losers. His clothes were fancy, well cut and he possessed an aristocratic languor about him that would define him as a dandy- but judging by the dark looks he didn't notice he was receiving, he wouldn't stay in possession of that money for long.

He didn't know when he'd made the decision but Bart stayed, breathing in the rancid air of drunkards and degenerates that he slotted in amongst so well. Like the rest, he wandered over to the grates to see the next round when it was excitedly proclaimed to be about to start.

Unseen referees announced a countdown that echoed off of the cold walls down below. Screeching metal indicated the raising of the barriers and two teams entered into the ring. Well- one so far that he could see, the vantage point he obtained granted viewing of only the Yellow's team entering- a robed gnome who  _floated_  into the arena and a draenei who hurriedly planted what Bart recognised to be draenic totems. Murmurs fluctuated around him as the fight entered its initial phase. The Yellows were cautious and tentative as they looked about, their opponents not in sight.

"Did you see the way he scorched that last lot? Down in a second! Nothing left but ash, so it looked," a female voice said behind him.

"No, I didn't see it, I was collecting from the dice throwers but I did hear that that space goat he's got with him is no easy pickings- he can summon these  _wolves_  to devour their opponents! Oh the screams…" another replied.

He had so far ignored the dice throwers over by the tavern, but treacherously did his eyes wander to several huddled groups. Gritting his teeth, he grasped the hilts of his axe and mace to stay his twitching fingers. Luckily he had enough foresight and distrust in himself not to bring his money pouch, but he didn't completely trust his fingers not to go purse-slitting. Instead he forced focus on the fight. The two in Yellow had tentatively moved towards the centre of the raised platform- Green still not in sight. The onlookers watched with baited breath, drooling, the waiting heightening the-

A movement to the bottom right pile of crates caught Bart's eye, it was hidden in shadow and near impossible to spy now that he stared, but he was sure someone was there. The figure must be crouched and concealed, eyeing up the two now drawing into middle proper, their distance too close and stances too slack. One, no two of the draenic totems toppled suddenly- rattling on the bricked floor and startling the Yellows into turning on the spot. And thus losing their concentration.

The draenei was first; some invisible force yanked him from behind his navel to just out of Bart's line of sight and he craned his neck to gain a better view. Strangled cries and scuffling of metal on, well, something solid, filled the air and the fight was started. The gnome had noticed his companion's distress and began to summon balls of flame from the very air while aiming them in the direction of the shaman's kidnapping. Cursing grunts echoed and the draenei was stumbling back towards the mage, bleeding, dishevelled and angry. He had two nasty looking weapons strapped to each of his hands and crouched low to whisper to the gnome. The gnome was still going full pelt in the direction and Bart wondered if he was aiming at something in particular or just in that general direction because that's where the shaman had been abducted to.

Water hissed and evaporated where the mage missed, steam rising in cloudy spurts with each cast. But still he cast in that direction. Whatever he was against wasn't moving or had moved and the gnome was being stupid. With a roar, the shaman let loose a torrent of foreign words and charged by his teammate who had now halted on the barrage. Bart had walked round the grate a little now, his height granting him the pleasure of viewing without pushing past people. A figure stood behind the crates, a large axe raised in waiting. The fool was running into a trap. The draenei was curving around the crates now and-

A third totem toppled, the mage turning immediately at the noise. A second figure entered the central platform, moving swiftly and very silently towards the distracted mage. What an idiot. By the time he had realised his error, the hooded figure was upon him, a swift punch in several key spots- sternum, temple, kidney and a final boot to the face silenced him enough for her – for those curves were  _very_  feminine- to draw two slender needlepoint swords as she went on the offensive. Her form was immaculate and skill clearly advanced as she sidestepped this and curved low to avoid that.

He was quick Bart'll give the mage that. He managed to cast a quick freezing spell to stick her feet to the floor while he ran out of her range. Very sly, he managed to throw a spell over his shoulder but she was quick enough to duck, only catching a singe by her shoulder. Metallic shrieks eluded to the melee battle occurring behind the crates with the draenei and the Green opponent. They had fallen from the main platform now, the Green pushing the Yellow back with forceful attacks and crude taunts. The shaman, despite being physically bigger, was struggling as they came closer to within Bart's eyesight.

What in the name of Elune- was that… _Terowin_?

It was. Blue eyes shining out of the shadows as they sparred across the arena lit up like lightning in the sky. That twisted grin was visible now as he gained ground on the draenei. His axe was also alight, equally blue symbols pulsing with each blow and parry. Soon enough one fist weapon skidded across the floor as Terowin swung hard. Now partially-disarmed and in trouble, the shaman cast a couple of weak spells that Terowin dodged with ease. He smashed his face with the flat of the blade to interrupt an incantation and the Yellow dropped to the floor, stunned. They were now backed into the opposite corner to where they'd started, the death knight crowding in on the downed opponent. He lifted his axe high.

"Damned scum, shouldn't be fucking allowed in the city, never mind here," a spectator voiced. Others mumbled and spoke their agreement, clear distaste polluting the air now. So even in the most foul place of vileness and depravity north of Stormwind, death knights were still unwelcome? How quaint that they held themselves aloft.

Halted breaths, stunned gasps and some cheers indicated the demise of the shaman and all swung their attention to the mage- who was at the complete mercy of the woman reigning hell down on him. Apparently in the interim of Bart watching Terowin- he still couldn't fathom what he was even  _doing_  here- the other Green had whittled the gnome to a drooling mess, her skin-tight leather wet with water. She held him up by his collar against the barrels and crates to the northwest corner, shortswords sheathed as she ever-so-slowly withdrew a familiar needle from her thigh-high boot. The gnomes eyes were wide in silent terror as she held him in his choke hold. Bart couldn't breathe.

Water poured from the absolute centre in a sudden torrent and rush, blocking the outcome of the scenario from sights much to the angry cries of the spectators but Bart stood stock still, jaw set and hard, feeling as if he's just stood under that deluge.

The referees determined the match over.

It hadn't even lasted five minutes.

The  _champions_  had defended themselves for another round.

The cowled kaldorei onlooker was no longer standing, watching the arenas. He had snuck away amongst the throng of excited and disgruntled observers, if anyone was to ask. But nobody did.

* * *

The entrance to the arenas hadn't been hard to locate. What had been difficult was lying his way into the behind-the-scenes and setup of the damned thing. But he had used all the skills he possessed to persuade his way in and now he found himself awaiting outside of the Green's dressing area. He stayed back in the shadows, blending in seamlessly in his own dark garb. He kept his bright eyes looking down whenever anyone came by, not wishing to draw attention.

Cramps started to threaten him after a quarter hour of waiting but he was resilient to be here. He didn't just see that. He didn't. But he had to know for sure.

Several had entered and exited the area so far- some on their own two feet, others on stretchers. But he hadn't seen hide nor hair of Terowin or her.

"You really should look up some time." Bart spun and had the axe to her throat with reflexes even he'd deem as quick, but she grinned at him upside down as if she hadn't just randomly whispered into his ear.

Her hood was off and her bright, fiery hair now hung in a pony tail, some bits loose and plastered to her forehead with sweat and blood. Gently, she lithely lowered herself to the ground, unbothered by the blade held to her throat. She just held his gaze, all wide and daring, amused and twinkling, but there was the underlying dangerousness that gave it the sharp edge that even Bart could see in this poor light. He lowered his axe but didn't sheathe it.

"You've been hanging around normal, city folk for too long Bart," she purred. "City folk never look up. Country folk are always looking up- to check the weather y'see, but city folk? Nah, too self-absorbed in their own affairs. Too wrapped up in their selfishness to care. Makes it too easy to tread rooftops and scale across ceilings to catch them out." Her speech was unhurried and immaculate, but Bart knew what she was doing. She was making his conversation on her terms even though Bart was the one to seek her out.

"I did wonder if you'd ever find out- about me down here, that is," she commented offhandedly as if finding her as the reigning champion of a damned arena tournament was an everyday occurrence.

"It was completely by accident. I didn't even recognise you until you pulled the needle from your boot," Bart responded smoothly. She laughed.

"Ah, of course you would recognise it, it's my signature piece!" said weapon was birthed from its home again as she held it up and admired it lovingly. "I coat it in very special _, very expensive_  poison. It's not a pleasant experience for the one pricked by it naturally, but where would the fun be in it if it wasn't a little bit painful?"

She held it there, between them and Bart more than understood what she was implying. He sheathed his axe reluctantly, but his anger didn't ebb. Instead he made a point of inspecting her gear. Her custom made, very lavish gear. Upon closer inspection he could see where the armour singed from the mage's fire spells, the smell of burnt leather only just evident.

"Curious threads, not yours, or at least not a uniform I recognise. Where did you obtain it?" these pleasantries were wearing thin on his patience, but he muddied through, playing along for now. She adopted a coy look in answer.

"Oh I know a couple of leatherworkers above ground. Well," she paused, "I know what they like." And if that didn't just send his blood rushing south. Her voice was  _deliberately_  sultry and deep as she gave him a heavy lidded look. His mind was all too aware of her cunning, of her manipulation to dominate the conversation on her terms, but his body was still just as affected by her and she bloody well knew that. What a  _bitch._

To top off, it had been a  _long_  time since he last lay with someone so right now nearly anything made him twitch.

"What are you doing here," he hissed at her. The needle was slotted back in place but that didn't mean Bart was in the clear, he knew that she was a quick draw with it. She turned to view him fully and clear was the fading bruises decorating the unmarred part of her face. It was as Cersae described to him, though little did she know the origins of her friend's injuries. All pretence of foreplay was dropped now.

Luciya still wore a smirk but there was a tightness in her eyes that meant all-business. "I'm earning money and having fun- what about you? I thought you were done with all of this, what did you call it? Trash? Vermin? Something unpleasant anyway." Her words parroted a conversation from over a year ago when they made to leave Stormwind. She was spouting words back at him that he had said to her to convince her to leave the city, the whorehouse and everything they were caught up in against their will and his patience thinned further at being caught down here. "You can't admonish me, Bart, when you yourself are being hypocritical. Not that you could admonish me anyway," she smirked.

"My reasons for being down here are none of your concern- but this, what you're doing, is recklessly dangerous! Cersae is worried out of her mind because of you. We vowed to leave this underworld together and now you're-"

"Now I'm  _what_ , Bart?" She cut across, her eyes flashing when he mentioned Cersae.  _Guilt_ , he realised. They still stood away from the traffic of the ready-rooms, but kept their voices to practised hushes regardless so not to draw attention. They were fighting but they weren't stupid. "Now I'm contending in a tournament? Please. You know fine well that I'm more than a match for anything that comes out of that gate. You know damn well I can hold my own."

"That isn't the point- we put all of this behind us when we left Stormwind! No more hits-for-hire. No more thievery or spying. No more-"

"No more what? Prostitution? Oh yeah look how well that worked out for us. As soon as we made port in Valgarde we had to find some desperate souls just so we could eat and keep warm. Guess that didn't work out too well for you, did it? Did you really get to choose your clientèle like you so dreamed?" She retorted, her gesturing making her dark leather creak with movement.

He fought to ignore the jibe, an arguing response on the tip of his tongue but luckily there was some part of him still functioning with logic as he change course instead. "We were in danger and you are opening yourself up to being recognised by publicising yourself like this! And with Terowin no doubt! That's going to draw more attention to you being partnered with a death knight- you're hanging yourself out to dry and signing your own death warrant by doing this!"

"Oh don't pretend you care," she spat. "You just wish you were down there with me instead, tearing through skin and taking down opponents. This isn't about me, this is about you being left on your own. Well I don't give a shit, Bart. I got bored of you and your sappy actions back at Wintergarde gave me the perfect excuse to cut myself lose."

He stared at her. At this petite woman whom he fiercely protected and loved for years did he rest his gaze.  _Used_. Of course. It wasn't like it was a shock to him that Luciya was selfish and out for number one. He always knew that about her. The narcissism was a part of her charm even if she was arrogant about it all, but she was also amazingly intelligent and witty which balanced out.

"Oh- I'm sorry, am I hurting your feelings?" her mocking tone cut through his thoughts like a knife. Her mouth pouted and her face twisted. Never had he wanted to strike someone so hard like he did in that moment. "Do you need someone to take you home? Because you're looking so path-"

"Just tell me what service I provided," he interrupted her, knowing it'd infuriate her even if she didn't show it, but kept his tone cold and neutral. She blinked once- no twice, before answering.

"You got me to Northrend, gave me food, money, entertainment when I was bored. And it was good, but I do actually have business up here to take care of. You were good at filling in the spare time."

He waited, silent. If she was going to tell him her 'business', she would, but he wouldn't be baited into asking just to be told 'no'. With no comfort in his correct forecast of her, she was still predictable to him as she went on.

"I was sent here, to collect information and report back." The unspoken ' _to whom?!_ ' hung in the air between them. It was in Bart's mouth as it tightened in realisation. It was in his eyes as they hardened with fury at what she was confessing. It was in his stiffened stance as he accepted that he had been a stepping stone and he let her walk all over him. And he bloody knew it all along.

She had the gall to look slightly apologetic as she admitted, "I never left Ravenholdt, Bart. You did when we ran to Northrend and practically declared yourself their number one target but I never rebelled." Her shoulders slumped a little. "They asked me to watch you, I let them know where they were and they let us be. You hear that? They let us alone because I sent them information."

"Save it," he managed to articulate through gritted teeth. "Save your bullshit. I get it. I'm the fool you used to piggy back on to do your dirty work." He stared her down, satisfied a little when she flinched. "Don't lie to me any more. Hell, tell me the truth and I probably won't believe you anyway."

Her voice was raised in  _laughter_. Fucking. Laughter. "Oh Bart, you always were dramatic. Look," she placed one hand on his arm but it only stayed for a breath before Bart had it twisted behind her back. He knew she let him do it but he felt a small flutter of victory anyway before pushing her away, growling. "Alright, no touching!" she shook her wrist in an overstated fashion.

"You spied on me. Reported my location to them." She didn't deny it, just spread her arms wide.

"Yeah, I did and in exchange for your- our- whereabouts, they let us live. Do you really think we could outrun them?"

"You-" a memory dawned on him and he felt his stomach contract. "You suggested Northrend. It was your idea- after the fire."

"Just getting that now eh? I proposed we go North. I proposed we join the Argent Crusade as tag-a-longs. I proposed this and that. Oh Bart ,you don't realise how manageable you are, do you? So easy to twist around and around." She spun one finger in a slow circle and the knot in his stomach followed suit.

"They know where I am."

"Yep, and what you're wearing down to the last layer and probably what you ate for dinner. You know too much, Bart, but the condition for your survival- dependant of course on you keeping certain information to yourself- is my cooperation. I've undertaken a rather dangerous mission to infiltrate the Kirin Tor for particular information on the Dragonflights in exchange for your life. There, now don't say I don't give you anything!" Her smile was wide and uncaring, flashing white in the darkness of his vision.

The Kirin Tor. Dragonflights. Ravenholdt. A lie, all of it. And she had disclosed that information unto him. Cold dread spread through him rapidly like rising water, intent on drowning him.

"Am I marked for assassination? Is that why you divulge this to me? The least you can do is prepare me for that if it is so."

"Oh, 'fraid not, Bartheleus. I told you because it makes you more valuable, you see. While you carry that information you can't reveal it. I mean, who can you tell? You're a wanted man by one of the most powerful networks of spies and assassins and you can't show your face anywhere to anyone who would care about that information. The moment you do open that delicious mouth of yours to spill the beans to the Kirin Tor, you're a dead man and you know that. So it's a win-win for me, I'm just telling you out of courtesy for your past, ah,  _services_ , as you described it. Call it my payment."

The choked noise never left his throat and he was straining to maintain posture in the wave of nausea that rode through him.

"Why the hell is Ravenholdt interested in the Dragonflights?" he spat, not trusting himself to vomit or explete at her.

"Aah, ah," she tapped the side of her nose. "Not Ravenholdt, just Fahrad and that's all I'm saying on the matter."

" _Fahrad_?" There was too much going on. Luciya's not-so-unexpected betrayal was washed in with the confusion he was suffering light of all of this. Fahrad, the asshole, Bart had never liked him personally, something really off about the Master Rogue at the manor. He wanted Luciya to spy on the Kirin Tor to wean information about the Dragonflights and none of this made sense because they-

"Alexander," he said, dawning.

"Oh, he was a fling. Just tried to use his as a rung to get onto the ladder. Didn't work out though." She sounded proud. Their argument, back in Wintergarde after he had finally been able to taste her, hold her against him…it had all been under her control. She deliberately said Alexander's name to set him off. To force his distance from her. To make him walk away. And he had done it, danced to her tune once a-fucking-gain. Now every recalled interaction he had ever had with her was under his involuntary scrutiny as he second guessed her actions and reactions, wondering just how much was calculated to make him do her bidding without her ever suggesting it outright.

"Oi, carrot top, get that perky ass back in here- we're up in two!" A voice drifted into Bart's senses, barely pulling him from the maelstrom in his mind. He half glanced over his shoulder, glancing at Terowin's highlighted form. A smug look crossed the death knight's face and Bart's fingers twitched towards his weapon.

Luciya walked away with a short goodbye interlaced with a 'don't-come-looking-for-me-again-because-you're-useless-to-me-now'.

He didn't know how long he stood staring into the enveloping darkness, but he did empty his stomach twice.

* * *

Bartheleus wasn't surprised that he ended up at the tavern. He wasn't surprised that he drank enough goblets to put a dwarf to shame, nor was he surprised that his anger was so escalated that he started a brawl with several people just because someone brushed against his shoulder.

He was surprised to see Lynara though.

The priest had found him, clutching his stomach where he had been kicked and beaten in his drunken haze as the world span at an uncomfortable rate. Slurred words of 'why you here?' left his throat in some way to which the beacon of light replied that he was down here tending to some homeless. Soft hands turned his face this way and that, asking how many fingers he saw and if he was short of breath anywhere. He showed Bart his empty bread basket and explained that he'd managed to help heal a few of them enough that they could hopefully find work.

It was idle chatter like that that distracted Bart enough to not even notice that Lynara was leading him out of the sewers and into fresh air that hit him like a – like the blows he had suffered tonight.

It sobered him enough to focus on walking, taking his arm from off of the priest's slender shoulders and gently pushing the thin arm from around his waist where he supported it. Delicately, he accepted the water that Lynara kindly purchased from a late-night street trader and downed it, only spluttering twice.  _How eloquent._

The walk had calmed him- as well as the battering he had undergone and overall Bart just felt exhausted. The walk through the sewers and navigating the streets of Dalaran managed to wash him of some of the  _bad_  but he still felt stupidly vulnerable like a child.

"Damned city," he found himself muttering. "More twists and turns than a bloody goblin trade agreement."

This elicited a light laugh from Lynara on his left (Bart snorted) as they made their way to the slightly out-of-the-way tavern where Bart was lodging for the foreseeable future. He may be under the recruitment of the Crusade but he wasn't obligated to sleep in the barracks as auxiliary staff.

The taproom in the inn was quite busy, pleasantly so. Enough to cause a general background buzzing that Bart liked to listen to at night, but not so rowdy to give him trouble sleeping. They by passed the main rooms and went upstairs where Bart was ushered into his room (after some awkward fumbling for the key). He did catch Lynara looking at the mace and axe hanging on his hips, but he didn't say anything of it. Bart deposited them in a corner as soon as they entered the room.

Still feeling like a child, the night elf allowed himself to be steered to the bed while Lynara fussed over him. After a moment's tutting, the blond elf removed his cloak and scarf and declared that he would be right back, exiting the room.

Lynara fascinated Bart. But Bart didn't like to admit it to himself. Because that would mean things that Bart didn't want to admit. Their shared moment of heat in Naxxramas- with a look,  _one bloody look_ \- had ignited something in Bart that he had chalked down to spur-of-the-moment-we're-about-to-die panic, but they had tended to each other outside and afterwards and it had confused the older elf. No, it hadn't confused him. It irritated him. It pissed him off. This wasn't how this was supposed to go and he willed it to go away. But it didn't. And after the vulnerability that the sin'dorei displayed only a few days ago, Bart had felt a surge of something uncomfortable that he fiercely denied.

The object of his muses returned with a bowl of hot water, a towel over his arm and a couple of bottles wedged between long fingers as he manoeuvred through the door and closed it with no hands free. The bowl was sat on the floor and Lynara rolled up the sleeves of his heavy robe. Bart wanted to run a finger along the bare skin. The bottles where emptied into the water, a strong antiseptic smell permeating through Bart's inebriated haze. Lynara wet the corner of the towel in the solution and knelt to come closer to Bart.

"You foolish man, getting caught in these things," his muttering was on going alongside his tentative ministrations. The aids stung his grazes and cuts- injuries he wasn't even aware he'd obtained- hisses escaping his teeth.

"You look at me. Why?"

A smile tugged at Lynara's too-close mouth. "To see what I'm doing, tending you blind would serve little purpose."

"No, you stare at me. When you think I can't see you- like in the Tailors." He recalled the focussed look Lynara had given him when he thought Bart couldn't see, but his reflection revealed more about his intentions that Bart thinks he meant to let on, and he wanted to know why. No more being lied to.

His hands paused in their task and the paler of the two gave him a direct look from his kneeling position on the ground. Bart sat higher, perched on the bed and yet that green stare made him feel dizzy and falling. "You're drunk," he stated.

" _Well noticed,_  Prelate, I believe my brawl fight in a bar would have been indicative of that, but I still wish for an answer to the question." Bart was actually surprised at how well he could articulate given the amount he had consumed.

Lynara searched him gravely and surprisingly  _answered_  instead of deflecting. "Because I find you attractive. Should one not appreciate beauty in all its forms?"

Stunned, he was, at the admission. Silenced into wordlessness as the priest carried on with his aid despite the forward words, his fingers pressing his skin gently to test the cuts and bones for cracks.

"Are you saying that you …want me?" Bart managed to slur. The alcohol had impaired more than his motor skills and he frowned at the sudden struggle to string words together.

"I am saying you are a handsome man and I'm drawn to you, though I am unsure why." The towel was dipped back into the water. "I thought it was a survival thing initially- the way you looked at me, the way we regarded each other, back at Naxxramas made me think-" the towel stung into another cut on his cheek. "Well, it made me  _think_. And I rationalised it as nothing more than hysteria and terror taking over me-" the towel was rinsed in the bowl again. "And I tried to think nothing more of it because I didn't wish to inconvenience you with it. Satisfied?"

But that was what Bart had just said, wasn't it? That it was just because they were so close to death. Right? But no, that didn't satisfy him. Because it was the truth. Lynara was like them, just wanting to use him for his own needs. Just like  _her._

"I don't sleep with men any more." He stated clumsily, though the bitterness couldn't be hidden in his unhindered state.

"'Anymore'?" Dawnstrider actually had the  _audacity_  to look confused. Bart scoffed at the feigned innocence. How dare he, how dare he pretend not to know what Bart was. Why else would he go to such an extent to – to seduce him. He needn't have bothered.

"You know what I am. I am a prostitute, a  _whore,_  who sells his body but no more, I choose my clientèle and  _men_  are no longer on it." His anger grew and he stood up, furious, knocking the supplies to the floor and the priest off-balance.

"I didn't-"

"I think it's time for you to leave." Not wishing to hear more lies, he stalked to the door with every intention of flinging it open before toppling in a fit of drunken vertigo. Arms of surprising strength captured him, holding him upright.  _His_  steady voice reached round from behind.

"Bartheleus, I did not imply to make use of your body by way of payment. I had no idea that you were of that profession and it does nothing to alter my perception of you-" Bart flung himself from the other elf, disgusted with the lies falling from his mouth.

"Of course you did! That's all I'm good for and all I am good at. You just want to feel alive so why not sleep with the whore," Hurt reared as the priest flinched. "You are not attracted to me; you are simply confused following your near-death experience! It's nature!" the words tumbled from his mouth unbidden in his ire. He wasn't even sure if half of what he was saying was being said properly, he couldn't hear past the buzzing in his ears.

A sigh escaped and uncharacteristically, Lynara ran a hand through his disturbed hair in seeming-frustration.

"Of course I thought of that, but each time we were alone beyond the gates of Naxxramas, the attraction grew beyond a physical sense. Yes, I think back then we had a moment of panic and sought comfort in each other's brief company- I was relieved when you stepped through the portal to Dalaran. But since then I've just been captivated by  _you_ , not your body, but  _you_. And I can't separate what is growing in here," he pointed to his chest, "and what's going on in here!" his hand thrust upwards to his temple. Steps had been taken in this monologue until Bart could clearly see the dilation of his eyes beneath the jade-taint. Even in his alcohol-affected state, a tight coil churned in his abdomen for the nth time that night- though this time it wasn't unpleasant. "You make me laugh and I enjoy your company. You even helped me through one of my most vulnerable moments three days ago and for that I am extremely grateful."

"You speak such shit for a priest."

Lynara sighed, his face abnormally flushed. "What I say is true, and if you wish to discuss it further later when you are rested and well, I will talk. Until then I will remain out of your way." The coil turned further.

"Don't count on my appearance." Bart received a quick glance for this statement.

"You are more than a prostitute, Bartheleus," his name was spoken so clearly while Lynara set about gathering his things. "You are a man of great intelligence and talent. I only wish you could see that." His pale lips moved with each enunciation to the point of distraction being this close. He could smell honey. The desire in those green eyes were more than evident and yet he was still leaving?  _No, that isn't how it was supposed to go_  his mind supplied hazily. Lynara reached forth to place what was supposed to be a comforting hand on his shoulder, but it never made its destination. It was Luciya all over again- he was controlling him, the situation, the conversation. Even the gesture mimicked hers from only what, an hour? Two hours ago?

And it angered him that the situation was playing out once again with himself as the victim, as the pawn tricked to the front lines.

Bart snapped.

Grabbing both of the sin'dorei's hands. He threw them up against the door, pinning the man beneath him, separating robed legs with his thigh. Standing a couple of inches taller gave Bart the height needed to appear intimidating. This was territory that Bart knew. This was familiar and on his own grounds, something he could command to how  _he_  wanted for once. The wide-eyed expression boring into his own told Bart all he needed to know about the naiveté of the priest in this domain. It excited the night elf.

"You best be careful what you say to me, blood elf. My tolerance is fast approaching zero." Startled as Lynara looked at the sudden change in position, Bart couldn't help but notice the brief bulge beneath his robes, pressing against the leg Bart used to hold the priest against the door. He smirked, knowing it wouldn't take much to tip this man into the edge of want and follow Bart, his hips were already fighting his instincts as they shifted ever so noticeably. Bart moved his leg slightly, rubbing against the erection and forcing a gasp from his quarry. He watched as the blood elf faced a crossroads, multiple expressions flitting across his eyes and brow in less than a moment. And Bart watched as Lynara started towards only one of those courses.

"Your tolerance may be reaching zero-" Lynara whispered into the silence, mouth open and inviting, "-but your breathing is faster than mine." Bart recognised this- he was going for control, to force Bart into action and temper now lost at his mission for manipulation, Bart dove forward to take this man's damned mouth for his own. He had no  _right_ to make such statements! How  _dare_  he attempt control. He didn't wait for an invitation to enter his lips with his tongue and was only marginally surprised by the pliable reception. He could  _taste_  the honey and tried to lap it up, to consume it. A moan escaped from Lynara and Bart swallowed it, their breath pushing and pulling between them as they fell into a spell.

Teeth clashed, tongues danced. Lips were bitten passionately and the heat rose. Releasing the trapped hands allowed the pale ones to thread through Bart's untied navy hair, gripping him closer to the slim body pressed against the door. Bart consciously maps out the entirety of all that is Lynara with his own frame, determined to memorise it, determined to make it tremble.

Pausing for a mutual need for breath, the taller elf planted one forearm above the other's head, needing it to keep his balance. The other hand frantically worked to untie the robes before him. Eager with wanton need, jumping to his aid, Lynara tried to fiddle with the many buttons and laces holding the garb together, eager to help. Bart quickly slapped them away.

"Do not touch anything without my permission," he growled. The priest's eyes grew wide, dropping his arms to his side, fingers clenching. Bart smirked, pleased with this reaction.

Returning to the task at hand Bart eventually divested Lynara of his robes, them falling to the floor in one ungraceful pile. A plain, silken undershirt covered his lean torso, slender white arms naked without sleeves. His erection was highly evident in his undershorts. Unashamedly, Bart allowed his eyes to wander up and down his body, taking in his long figure and bare flesh. Scars, newly-adorned and long-healed decorated his frame, the most recent evident angering Bart- how dare someone mark him. Meeting gazes again, Lynara sucked in a breath, his respiration already a little laboured, that inviting mouth plump and bruised. There was only one way skin like milk should be marked. He leaned forward, placing his lips on the crook where shoulder meets neck and he inhaled. Incense. Bread. Soap. All things that inherently combined into the familiar smell that was  _Lynara._  Keeping the priest boxed in, unable to moved, Bart lapped his tongue out and licked the skin. Determining the skin as divine, he ever so gently suckled it.

" _Bartheleus,"_  the sin'dorei whispered, the strain tighter than the night elf's own trousers because  _damn_  that was too rousing to hear his name said like that. He feels the pulse beneath the flushed flesh increase under his tending and Bart knows from experience that there will definitely be a mark there. One that says 'this is mine, I own this. I took this for myself' and that was enough to push Bart to the edge he didn't even know he was walking along.

Bart's passion was too far-gone now, arousal and want taking over any semblance of logic he held leftover from tonight… so was going to give this man what he wanted.

Tearing at the laces of his shirt, the offending article was torn off without care, surprising its owner, and then thrown onto the floor. Bart grabbed his upper arms, forcing his body against the priest's and kissed him hard. No pleasure was felt, just pain where he nipped his lips, moving down his jawline and latching onto his neck, biting without mercy. To Bart's satisfaction, Lynara cried out to stop.

"No, please don't- I need,  _hah_ , I need to – _oh_ \- stay  _unmarked_!"

"You should have thought about that before offering your body to me,  _Lynara,_ " Bart stated, moving down to take one erect nipple between his teeth. Two slender hands found his shoulders, attempting to push him away causing Bart to just resist further, tugging harder on the nub evoking a mewl to emit from his near-naked company. A hand found the other nipple, squeezing and rubbing it tightly between his forefinger and thumb, cries of pleasure and pain met his ears.

"Barthe- _Bart_  please st-stop!" Bartheleus sucked in response, an attractive outcry escaping blood elf's throat. Taking a hand off his chest, he slowly danced it down his torso, ghosting over the faint muscle there, his mouth overtaking where his hand had vacated. They passed over his hips because by god they were sharp, jutting out ever so slightly and they were  _sculpted_ , Bart was sure. Worshipping those hips accordingly with his tongue, his hand dropped lower, gracing over the swollen mound ever so slightly, a small wet patch already evident.

"O-oo- _oh no_! P-please, I c-cannot-" the pale man's figure buckled with sensual overload ( _already_ , Bart thought filthily) and Bart wasted no time in holding his weight with one arm around the slim waist and manoeuvring them onto the made bed. Leaning up on his elbows, Lynara took in the image of the impassioned man before him.

Bartheleus' face was hard and unforgiving, breathing fast through flared nostrils, chest heaving, hair dancing wildly around his strong jaw. He was beautiful.

Feeling his erection growing uncomfortable in his shorts, Lynara moved to allow it freedom– only to have Bart intercept. Grabbing Lynara's wrists, he whispered breathily- "I said do  _not_  touch anything." Bart climbed onto the bed, deliberately placing one knee between Lynara's own, pressing dangerously close to the pinned man's arousal. The tension was impalpable- the blond elf felt his heartbeat increase tenfold with excitement. It took all of Bart's intoxicated focus not to attack the pulse at the priest's throat again. Instead he turned his whole attentions to the quivering body beneath him, waiting for Bart to make his move.

_Good._

Transferring both trapped hands into one of his large own, Bart slowly and agonisingly stripped away the last piece of clothing covering the priest, each leg slotting out of the holes they previously occupied with an undisguised tentativeness. Now lying completely naked and exposed before him, Bart's body reacted quickly, begging for escape and release. To Bart's unspoken delight, Lynara's _entire_  body was hairless. Reaching for the discarded scarf, Bart bound the slim hands together before Lynara could protest, ordering them above his head. Lynara did not argue, but his breathing tempo did pick up.

Satisfied, the night elf took off his own waistcoat and shirt, enjoying the way that those green eyes swept across his torso, widening with unmistakeable appetite. Leaning forward to be parallel with the younger man beneath him, Bart forced himself under control, silently cursing the length of time it had been since he'd last slept with someone (Before Naxxramas as a pity fuck after Luciya's departure. The woman had been average and it had been quick.)

His indigo hair fell forward, curtaining them both, shielding them from the world and the world from them. Lynara's face flashed many expressions- surprise, fear, excitement.

_Lust._

Lowering his heavier body down, their naked skin pressed against each other, the bare man's erection crushed desperately against a cloth-covered bulge and both jerked in response. Without breaking eye contact, Bart slowly started to grind his pelvis, their chests moulding into each other as breath grew harder to draw. Circling his hips, Lynara sounded breathy beneath him, eyes closed in pleasure, mouth round and open with his panting. Bart watched him, increasing and decreasing the speed of his hips to gauge different reactions from his quarry. It was when Lynara licked his own lips that hard zeal took Bart over.

Bart attacked his chest, his neck, his ear, his forehead with his teeth and tongue, nipping and sucking where he could reach. He hovered his mouth over the lips of this submissive man, taking in his desire-filled state and revelling in the breathy gasps. The tied hands were held above his head, slack and bouncing with the motion of their fast rutting. He pushed harder into the body below him, their solid arousals pressing against each other on either side of the fabric barrier. Lynara responded in kind, moaning loudly and lifting his pelvis to meet Bart's as much as possible. His knees drew up in response, trying to use his footing on the mattress to get closer before wrapping them around Bart's thighs.

Noses touching, breaths mingling, Bart looked on with a practised detached coolness at the man gyrating beneath him. His face was flushed, the normally careful hair now plastering his forehead and neck in a small sheen of sweat. The smell of his pre-released fluids permeated into his senses and mixed with Lynara's own natural scent it was  _mesmerising_. Bart closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment to get lost in his senses, burying his head into the shoulder of the priest. They move like this over and over, Lynara falling into a rhythm with him that is heavenly and Bart cannot stop his own moan being pressed deep into the pale flesh. He recovers by biting gently and elicits a strangled gasp as a reward. Hearing the sounds of pleasure growing closer and quicker, the man crying out his name in short bursts and _begging_  whines, Bart cradled his own approaching release with great willpower and acted fast instead.

The prostitute is more than well-versed in the preparation needed for what he was about to do. His fingers twitched as he briefly considered it, his mouth collecting the saliva already generated, but he doesn't go through with it.

Not tonight.

He wanted no ease, no pleasure. He wants tight and painful. He wanted to see red and feel heat. He wants to take charge and he has his quarry right where he wants him, caught by his own desire for Bart. Just like Bart had been with  _her…_

Luciya's face flashed briefly before him, smirking, taunting, discarding and his passion-come-anger grows to striking heights.

Too often was his own comfort forgotten about for the sake of someone else's pleasure. Too often was he torn and used for a gratification not his own. His knees would bruise where they met the floor, rough hand prints still marking his shoulders even the next day and hair lost where it had been grabbed too hard.

No more.

No more being out of control. He was sick of manipulation and subjugation. He was tired of being a means to an end where he had received no reward. He was done with having the rug pulled out from under him and he was through with relying on others.

He wanted to know what it was to dominate and triumph in his own goals, starting with this one. He examined the priest, the taught man trapped beneath him writhing in his own selfish desires.

This man panting beneath him was no different to her. Using him to recover, to feel busy, as a pet project to fix, for entertainment to fill the spare time…to feel superior next to the whore and that was unforgivable.

Now it was his turn to take something for himself.

Bart settled swiftly between the splayed legs, not allowing Lynara enough time to guess his intent. Leaning forward, hard and determined, he threw the bound wrists over his own neck, reached down to his trousers, deftly released his own aching erection and lined up with his goal. Using two thumbs to spread Lynara open, before the blond man could protest, Bart plunged in without warning into the priest's depths. He grunted at the crude resistance and it briefly occurred to him that Lynara might not have done this previously before reflex took Lynara over, gripping onto him, pulling him in with every muscle tense, calling out his trouble at the intrusion. A possessive thrill runs through Bart, knowing he caused this and urges him to cause more reactions like that. Not even giving the man a chance to adjust, Bart moved his hips instinctively.

The priest throws his head back, his back arching and arms straining to pull away. The contortion on his face is what he wants and whatever blood hadn't already migrated south did so at this instance. Fumbling, bound hands fumble for purchase in Bart's loose hair but are unable to keep grip while distracted elsewhere. That doesn't stop Bart from tightening each time the fingers are successful in a tug or harsh pull.

Listening to him crying out in hoarse surprise and pain, Bart didn't let up as he pumped faster and harder. Lynara cried for him to stop, to halt in his crude ministrations, but Bart was too far gone in his temper now. This is what he wanted, what he needed and the thought sent a flare to his abdomen. In and out he drew himself, forcing his way back in every time, ignoring the tears now sliding down Lynara's face. Ignoring the choking cries and cracked gasps. The bound hands tried and failed to unhook themselves from behind Bart's neck, still pulling hard and desperate, but each attempt was punished with a harder thrust, Bart hitting his internal walls forcefully and without mercy. He knew the spot to professionally hit to cause Lynara to moan and sob and he aimed for it with each drive in. Bart was stronger and bigger than the other elf, he  _will_  have his way.

Grunting, the night elf felt his own release building, straining deep within as he drove in and out of the distressed man below him. Bart is pumping so hard they're actually moving up the bed, the sheets tangled and abandoned underneath them.

Grasping Lynara's cock, Bart pulled and tugged on it up and down, matching the speed and momentum of his hips. Lynara cried out helplessly, begging for mercy and an end to this hell, claiming it was too much, his effeminate face contorted in agony. Bart only jerked harder, his penetrations more unforgiving and faster. He was an automaton now, doing what he used to do for a living but voluntarily, just because he could and this time, he was the one to determine when to stop, not his customer. He was moving vicariously. Thrusting. Demanding. Taking. Legs beneath him thrashed in his grasp, unvictorious in their struggle.

A throaty noise escaped through Bart's lips.

Slapping his genitalia against the priest's firm buttocks with each deep advance, Bart soon drew to his high, finally releasing inside of his red-eyed partner with a feral groan. He arched back, pulling the man off the bed with him slightly as he rode out his orgasm with a few more thrusts. Another inhuman noise left his throat and Bart slumped forward, not withdrawing his position, still pouring his frustration and anger into the sin'dorei. The twitching erection in his hands was milked harder and faster until it striped Lynara's chest- the man crying out in discordant sobs as Bart tended to him without letting up, the night elf nearly satisfied.

"N-no, p-plea-aase! It's-  _oh anar'alah_ -! It's too much! I-I can't-!  _Aah_!" His broken voice played the same words over and over only to be ignored.

The night elf drained him further, the man trapped without any way to escape the overbearing sensations. His breathing was short and shallow, moans load and masculine, voice raw and spent. Pleas to halt fell on deaf ears. Lynara tightened around Bart's own shaft over and over in his failed attempts to escape the physical expressing he was undergoing.

Slowing his hand, taking one last deliberate slide up to the top of his now-flaccid member, he rubbed one thumb over the head, coating it in the juices freshly squeezed out of it. He pushed down and around, taking great care to elicit several jerking responses and weak protests.

Bart lifted the bound wrists over his head where they dropped onto Lynara's painted chest, moving up and down with each curt breath. Exiting him swiftly and abruptly forcing one final cry, Bart encased himself expertly back into his trousers, examining the gasping man in front of him, shuddering legs now spread-eagled, exposing his traumatised and bruising body. He could see the starts of fingerprints shaped bruises around Lynara's highlighted ribs and thighs already. He found himself twitching again already.

"Be careful what you wish for in future," the night elf said breathlessly, all energy drained and frustration released. He stumbled a little as he tugged his shirt back on, willing the light-headedness to leave him. Locating his money pouch and weapons, Bart looked about the room to everywhere but the bed. Deciding he had nothing more to collect, Bart stood up and exited the room without looking back, weeping heard as he closed the door.

Physically he felt satisfied and sated. Mentally, he couldn't give a damn, the alcohol and adrenaline buzzing around his brain, but deep within himself, somewhere in the middle of his chest below his sternum, Bart decided that taking control wasn't as gratifying as he thought it might be.

Making a beeline for the next nearest tavern, he vowed to drown whatever weight was trying to press on him.


	54. Falling

Lieutenant-Commander Ryndan Firesworn of the Argent Crusade, middle child of five, apprentice blacksmith to his father, a paladin of over a decade and survivor of the second raid on the Dread Naxxramas was currently flopped out on his bed.

His boots were still on, his clothes untouched and blanket unused, but despite all of that, the blood elf swore that this was the most comfortable place in the world. It was due to this comfort that he decided against moving in favour of disrobing and instead sought sleep, after all, returning to his military duties was very tiring business and he hadn't wholly recovered the stamina he held before…well, arriving on Northrend.

So far he had moved into the temporary barracks assigned to the Crusade in Dalaran, with his own private quarter (desk-complete with unfinished letter to his family- and chest inclusive) and set about easing into his duties. Lieutenant-Commander Soren McGreaves had welcomed him back with open arms, a broad grin and promises of a tankard or three in the eve. He was also instrumental in easing Ryndan back into military life.

Ryndan wasn't wholly out of the loop, Commander Ashwood had taken time to visit him twice in hospital after her first visit (in which Ryndan was still highly ashamed about) and made mention of some general updates. Such as the completion of the bases at Angrathar- both Horde and Alliance, and that she expects their involvement to be called for within the month. Even with his re-entry into his rank, Ryndan was unlikely to be used for more than anything as an advisor given his physicality wasn't near battle-ready by medical standards. Despite this, he was healthy enough to warrant a discharge and was granted mostly admin work and paper-sorting; the kind that no one really wants to do but has to be done in order for things to run smoothly.

This suited Ryndan fine. He started by taking stock and inventory as well as general register of the soldiers. This particular task allowed him to come face to face with some he hadn't seen in the weeks following the raid and funerals and he was only partially shocked by the state of them.

Most were fully-limbed and able, their physiques thinner but unharmed. However, Ryndan saw something, a loss of innocence and a terminally present sharpness to their eyes that he feared would never depart. He allowed himself to mourn for them briefly before compartmentalising that away and carrying on with his duties. Those in his contingent and close subordinates were happy to greet him as Ryndan wandered the mess hall and barrack-grounds, claiming that they were glad for his recovery and telling him of tales of their time in Dalaran. This was mostly the younger soldiers, the more mature and older than Ryndan giving him a knowing smile or a fond touch on the arm, a pat on the shoulder or a look that said all that needed to be said.

They were forever bound, the survivors of Naxxramas, brought together by horrors no other living souls could possibly understand. He had heard tales of great heroic deeds throughout Azeroth his entire life, of men and women who strove to rise against evil, quashing it into the earth and oblivion, coming out on top as victors into the light of a better world.

But he didn't feel like that. He felt hollow, and invisible whenever the darkest parts of his mind opened their arms and smothered him while he slept.

Now, fully exhausted and beat after a long day's work and an incessant amount of walking about, Ryndan was nearly positive that he would be too tired to dream and he smiled as this thought carried him off into an undisturbed slumber.

The next two days were much the same, his diet was a little more fattening than he had attained at the hospital (though some cheekily purchased sweetbreads from a baker he shared with Cersae had helped him survive the medical food). Ryndan started to feel his energy return, a zest pulse through him as he fell back into the to and fro of off-the-battlefield-officering. Seeing this, Commander Ashwood had said with a mysterious glint in her eye that she would like him to sign up for training. Ryndan had agreed immediately, wanting to get back into some level of fitness where walking about for a couple of hours didn't tire him out. Even though he had had a number of excursions out with Cersae, they had been easy-going and slow-paced. The barracks was too well run for such a relaxed attitude and Ryndan was certainly feeling that.

What he hadn't counted on, however, was that even though his commanding officer had meant drills (which he wasn't ashamed to admit he had difficulty keeping up with at first), she had also meant training in the form of learning to ride a mount.

A  _flying_  mount, to be exact.

And it was with severe reservations and some rather unkind names on the tip of his tongue about one particular kaldorei superior did Ryndan arrive at Mei Francis' emporium with a letter claiming he was to 'join the class'. Mei Francis, a kind woman with a clear love of all things animal, welcomed him with a smile and guided him to the back of her large estate on the main Dalaran thoroughfare where a stables was situated. Ashwood had already explained that this was funded by the Crusade and she thinks the training would benefit Ryndan physically and perhaps even then some. Ryndan had put up a weak argument and was told with a particular tongue-in-cheek expression that he couldn't say 'no' to an official order.

And so here he was, facing down some winged creatures eager for a new master.

"I'm afraid you're left with the pickings, Sir Knight, all the other cadets and officers who enlisted in the course were paired with their animals a few weeks ago. There are a couple of others who are due to start so you won't be the only one learning from the beginning," Ms. Francis had encouraged, gently scratching the ear of one wind rider who nuzzled against her as soon as she approached the pen.

Ryndan was given space to choose between the three beasts. Two were at the forefront of their pens and another lounged towards the back, asleep or bored. The two at the front were runtish-looking and a little doe-eyed, perhaps too young for Ryndan's taste and so he opted for the larger, more sedated one to claim for his own. Mei gave him a look that all women seem to possess and yet no man could understand with that glint in her eyes that Ashwood had only given him the day before and said that was fine. Somehow Ryndan's gut disliked that look very much.

"Krillik, is what we named him" was all she said to Ryndan before they left the stables. Throwing one last look over his shoulder before he left, Ryndan saw the tanned windrider peering at him curiously, though Ryndan had a feeling that he maybe should have gone for a younger one, after all, they would have grown bigger, right? It wasn't until much later did Ryndan realise that that particular creature had been left and there was probably a reason for it.

Having left the stables now prepared to begin flight training in the morning, Ryndan's business for the day was complete and he still felt strangely invigorated. He found himself craving Lynara's company and looked to his room in a local inn to locate him only to find it unoccupied. Unsurprised, for Lynara was generally a busy person of his own doing, Ryndan instead looked in his usual haunts- the local streets talking to vendors, the hospital, aiding in the out-patient ward to be a general helping hand for the staff, the tailoring shop he was so fond of visiting with Bart and even a local apothecary who Lynara had mentioned once with regards to decent soap. All came up empty handed and so Ryndan left the main city centre to return back to the district where he and his own were nested for a quick dinner of mince, potatoes, vegetables and gravy (to his delight the meal was even hot).

And yet Ryndan still possessed an extra pocket of energy and no way to disperse it. It was then he opted to visit the small chapel he now favoured and yet had only attended three times due to this, that and the next thing, in hopes that some prayer and meditation could prepare him for sleep.

It was in that chapel however, that Ryndan had found the object of his late afternoon pursuit. Lynara knelt in the very back pew as Ryndan entered and it was in solemn prayer with head bowed and shoulders tense. It was somewhat cold within the church, relying on the heat of the candles and attendees to provide warmth, so he wasn't surprised to find Lynara huddled under a tightly-wrapped scarf, even within this holy place. But he  _was_  concerned that he could see the man physically shaking with chill and yet ignored it in his zealousness for prayer.

Ryndan rounded on him in dire worry, but stopped in his tracks at the intensity of focus of the man's expression. Even from the end of the pew the paladin could see the deeply furrowed brow, the frantic whispers of desperate prayers under his breath and hands clasped so tightly together that they were lacking blood flow and white-knuckled. Caught between his own distress and Lynara's, Ryndan decided to instead watch over his friend from afar until Lynara found peace in whatever disturbed him or until he passed out from fanaticism; whichever came first.

It occurred to the paladin that he had no idea how long Lynara had been there, but an observing of the local cleric told Ryndan all he needed to know, for when even the guardian of the chapel was throwing one looks of trouble, that's when you knew you'd been there too long. There wasn't a mass on and so Ryndan risked a quick word with the robed cleric, asking how long Lynara had been there and it was with a sad sigh did the priest say that 'the young woman had been there for some time, clearly upset about something but unwilling to talk about it with him'. Thanking the cleric, Ryndan returned to his seat, watching over the man at the other end of the pew gravely.

Could it be his guilt about Cersae? The talk with the Warlock only a few nights ago still weighed heavily on his mind but Ryndan had been blessed with an abundance of distraction since returning to work. He hadn't forgotten his promise of aid to her, but he was kept extraordinarily active to the point where he couldn't think about anything else but the task at hand. He knew Lynara had been trying for a similar state of mind since returning from Naxxramas but hadn't insofar succeeded. Was the self-made guilt of her health resting on his soul like lead? His teeth gritted in frustration, just wishing to reach out to his friend and tell him it would be all right, but they would both know it to be a hollow promise based on hope and fear instead. Instead, the most he could do would be to be there when Lynara needed him.

Night went on and Lynara soon was forced to leave when the bells tolled midnight and the church entered her own rest. He hadn't yet noticed Ryndan and so the paladin waited until they were outside in the snow to catch his shoulder- of which a violent flinch and a near-smite was the reward for.

"By The Light- what's the matter with you?" was all Ryndan could demand in shock.

But Lynara could not answer immediately, his eyes unfocussed and distant before realising that Ryndan was friend and not foe.

"I- I apologise. I am tired," and an equally tired hand swept over his long face, accentuating his high cheekbones in the lamplight.  _He's too thin_ , Ryndan thought _, and his belt had tightened once more._

"Lynara, please speak to me, if this is about Cersae-"

"Ryndan, you are my friend and I appreciate your goodwill but I beg of you to leave me alone in this instance lest I speak ill to you and I do not wish to do that." Ryndan shut up immediately, struck by the stone-faced expression of the man in front of him and the brevity of his speech. A moment passed before Ryndan nodded slowly.

"Very well, I won't ask again, but please tell me you are well and unharmed and I will be content in that."

The look Lynara gave him was a heartbeat too long.

"I am well, I promise you that," and he bade Ryndan a good night. It was as Lynara was walking away from him, a fading figure in the snowfall, that Ryndan realised he had his mace tied to his belt again, and for all the time he was in Dalaran, Lynara never had cause to wear it. With a great sigh did Ryndan retire with a heavy heart and burdened thoughts. It hadn't escaped him that Lynara only promised that he was well and not unharmed.

He didn't sleep as well as he'd hoped to that night.

* * *

"Being a death knight again wouldn't be such a bad idea," I voiced aloud to my companion. She cocked one elegant eyebrow at me from her lazy position in the chair.

"Oh?" was all she said, clearly unbothered by my statement.

"Yep. It would be heaven. Bliss. Free. Hell, I'd get Terowin right now if he knew how to convert me back," I started squinting at my pillow. "Because then- ouch! _By The Light_ " A sharp pain rose to a shockingly quick crescendo across me, momentary and brief but excruciating nonetheless as I groaned into my pillow. " _Because then I wouldn't have to deal with this!_ "

'This' was of course the monthly menace, the wonderful, overtly feminine cyclic event that so many moon over for being the pinnacle of womanhood, the flowering of one into maturity and the sign that one was ready for motherhood…my menses.

Was I pleased to be returning to natural functions? Sure. Was I happy that I could eat and digest like a living person- of course! Was I overjoyed at being torn asunder from the inside out while feeling weak, groggy, in terminal pain and unable to displace my nausea?

_Was._

_I._

_Hell._

Luciya had luckily been the first to find me writhing in pain on my bed, clutching my stomach and near tears and I was blessed that she had enough sense not to panic. Instead she honed on me searching for wounds when she realised my sheets were blood-soaked and realisation kicked in. Light knows what I would have done if Ryndan or Lynara had found me like that. Part of me would be mortified but the rest of me couldn't give a kodo's ass as long as  _they stopped this damnable pain_.

Luciya, being a woman of womanly knowledge, set about finding a concoction for me that would ease the cramps- and it did for the most part on the highest dosage I was allowed, and she also arranged for fresh bedding, clothes and a bath. I praised her to the heavens and back for being so perfect and wonderful, nearly sobbing with relief when I could uncurl from my foetal position a few minutes after my first potion. A half hour later I was cleaned, redressed, aching and tired but alive and I had to mentally prepare to battle against an invisible force that was determined to end my life again-  _the cramps_. Luciya had procured a hot water bottle also which marginally helped but otherwise just gave me something to curl around other than my pillow. Another tearing cut across my abdomen as I struggled to breathe through it.

Like I said, being a death knight wouldn't be so bad at this point. I hadn't  _really_  missed this part of being mortal, if I was  _brutally_  honest. I mean, if you had to tear the truth from me, I'd  _maybe_ admit it under pressure, otherwise I would deny it fiercely, after all being not-dead-and-mortal was just the best ever,  _right_?

"Oh for the love of- why does it hurt so much? I don't recall it being this painful," I moaned, my pillow my only solace and comfort.

"It had been what- three years since your last one? Surely that kind of build-up would hit you like a ton of bricks," came the unhelpful narration from the corner.

"I'm going to ignore that and pretend you had a nice soothing comment in there for your friend who you so dearly love and have the utmost sympathy for."

"Whatever makes the cramps seem minimally different to you, dear," Luciya replied airily. I made a face at her but she ignored it in favour of burying her nose in an engineering magazine.

"Oooh, just kill me now!" My pillow was again the recipient of this particular cry for a mercy killing, the 'cramps' more like a blade to the gut as nausea roiled deep within me.

"Cersae, there isn't an instrument in existence yet that can measure my level of indifference to that remark though you're certainly going to give me cause to put some research into making one."

"What do you do to help them?" I shot at her, my mood souring and even though we both know it wasn't at her, Luciya just took it in her stride anyway. I was pleased to note between my dying moments that she wasn't bruise-coloured today, instead she wore a more healthy tone of unbroken skin and a distinct lack of injuries, for which I was temporarily grateful.

"I don't," she commented. When I pushed further, my drug (and pain, did I mention the pain?) -induced state clouding my ability to  _shut the hell up_  and learn some tact, she paused in her reading and stood up.

In a rare moment of vulnerability, I watched from my bed as she lifted her shirt to reveal a disturbing array of faded scars. Some were raised and what I vaguely recalled as being keloid, others faint and old, blending into her stomach. She pointed to a long, faded one at the top of her mons. "This one. This one means that I lost what it means to be a woman."

And it suddenly made sense, why she was so boisterous, so sensual and so proud of her curves and feminine form and why she wanted to use and boast it to the best of her abilities, because she felt like she needed to make up for it. I was overcome with the desire to inform her that she was just as female as I, with or without a womb but she sat back down clear in her shoulders that the topic was over just like that. I briefly wondered if it was removed for medical reasons or…professional.

I stopped complaining about my cramps.

Luciya stayed with me for most of the morning, including a brief lunch with me before departing for whatever it is she had to do and I missed her company immediately. The potion was now working in its full wonders and I could travel the room and to the water closet with no trouble. I changed my rags and set them in the laundry basket for washing before departing for a small excursion outside. It was snowing lightly, winter chill high in the air and I huddled close to the hospital grounds, not wishing to stray too far in case another wave hit me. Luckily I made it through the day without dying despite my earlier convictions that I would most certainly perish and found myself missing not only Luciya, but Ryndan, Lynara and even the stoic Bart for company. I knew Ryndan had returned to work, something of which he was excited about without ever telling me he was excited about, but he couldn't contain the boyish energy surrounding him whenever he mentioned it in the lead up to his return. He missed his contingent, his family in these northern plains and I was happy to see him looking forward to something, for it wasn't difficult to notice the melancholy in his laugh or the sadness in his eyes some days.

And since Lynara had said that he didn't think I needed much healing now, if any at all, I imagine he found something else to occupy his time because Light forbid that man take some time to himself and  _rest_! And naturally, without Lynara, I doubted Bart would make an appearance on his own. We were fond of each other but not so much as to spend time in each other's individual company. We spoke few words as is to each other, basking in the chatter and gossip that our dear priest inflicted on us but without him, the room would be despairingly quiet.

I contented in reading, a pastime I don't think even undeath could make me give up, and absorbing new knowledge from my purchased Alchemistry tome until the sun had set and my eyes begged for relief. The next morning, well enough to receive company without looking like I suffered a battle wound in my bed, Luciya brought the much-spoken-about Jerewyn and… and a  _wolf_ , into my room.

'Miles', the wolf was called, seemed to sense my hesitance about his presence and deliberately situates himself next to my bed at his mistress' feet where he throws me glances that just scream 'I'm going to eat you any moment and you won't see it coming.'

Apparently I'm not fond of wolves with jowls large enough to swallow my head and shoulders whole, but that might just be me.

Jerewyn Jenkins- or 'Jerry' as she prefers to be referred- was a wonderfully spirited woman about my age who I liked very much and got on with quite well. She talked more than Luciya and the pair batted back and forth between themselves with stories from their time in the Howling Fjords, talking about people I'd never met and places I'd never visited. I was unable to contribute much but even so I listened fondly, enjoying the vibrancy the contrasting pair offered as Luciya wound Jerry up and Jerry shot smartass replies back to her.

"I don't know why they prefer guns at all!" she proclaimed mid-telling. I had since learned that Jerewyn was the youngest of four and the only girl, so her older brothers were an unending source of stories and mischievous tales to regale from her childhood. Currently, she argued about her siblings' preference for guns where she favoured the classic bow. As far as I could gather, her entire family- parents included- were hunters of some nature.

"My dad uses a bow, his mum before him and hers before her. I just don't get it, why they passed the opportunity to wield a bulky, loud, gun powder-stinking weapon. Joseph- he's the oldest- he did use a bow for a while and even inherited my dad's old one before passing it to me and taking up a  _polearm_! I forgive him for that because he's my favourite brother, he doesn't tease me like the other two. Takes after my dad, y'see. Both of them have this curly black hair and dark eyes, whereas me, Julian and Jackson were lucky enough to inherit this golden mop of hair from our mother." She grinned, pointing to her cropped locks for it was very blonde indeed. Not quite the platinum of Lynara's hair, but a more sun-kissed, buttery blonde that suited her well against her dark skin and amber eyes. "But yeah, I do have to wonder about him and if he's right in the head sometimes. Joseph adopted this basilisk from Feralas you see- an  _ugly_  creature, let me tell you, with an even worse temper-" Miles let out a snort of protest, earning him another soft kick from Jerry. "Yeah, yeah, I know  _you_  get on with her. Light knows  _everyone_  gets on with that thing apart from me. I swear, it's like the lizard has it  _in_  for me, y'know?"

I could have  _sworn_  that Miles looked at me from out of the corner of my eye.

"But this thing is evil incarnate, I don't get why everyone else can't get that! It tries to bite me and whacks me with its tail when no one else is looking. Damnable creature, don't know what Joe sees in her, I really don't. But anyway, after he adopted that thing, he just kind of gave up hunting altogether and wanted to explore instead. So when we came here, Mum, Dad, Jackson and Julian all followed Nesingwary to the Basin and I went with Joseph to the Fjords. He had to leave there a month after arriving but I had a letter from him a few months ago saying he was passing through Dalaran and he'd return there every once in a while if I was ever in the area. I'm just waiting here until I hear word back from him or my parents to see who I meet with first."

I was envious of her, that much I could determine. Her family was obviously loving and close-knit, something I had no memory of besides the recollections of the patchy relationships I had back at the Undercity with Mort and Edmund, way before all of this began. Bitterness aside, I found myself absorbing all the teasing and exclaiming did about Jerry's family antics and sneaking a peek at Luciya, I had a feeling that's what she valued in Jerewyn the most as well.

Towards the end of the morning my cheeks were aching from smiling, though I kept sending Miles nervous glances, just in case he'd decided he was hungry for a snack.

When I asked Jerry if he'd eaten recently, she'd replied with "Nah, he ate two days ago and that'll keep 'im going until tomorrow, I reckon." And she'd nudged his hind with her foot a couple of times and he'd growled in response, flicking his ears up. She had laughed and Luciya had joined in, but I clenched my hands to save them grabbing my pillow in fear.

"Oh don't mind 'im, he's just grumpy cos we're not on the ground," she reassured me, bending down to ruffle his grey coat. There was a definite kinship between the two that I hadn't really seen anywhere before between person and beast, but it didn't keep me from being curious enough to ask what she meant by that.

"Oh, because we're not on earth-level he gets a bit jumpy. So do I sometimes, mind, when I remember that we're in the clouds an' all."

A simple "Eh, what?" from me was all it took for the two ladies to drag me outside towards the main city centre until I found myself on an open terrace landing looking over a ledge, clinging to Luciya for dear life as I found out that we were  _floating in the bloody air._

My legs nearly gave way as I peered over once more for clarification that Dalaran was in the air. Floating. On its own. Not on the ground. In. The. Air.

It must have been the knee-knocking, the trembling or possibly the whispered chatters of 'what the hell, what the hell' that alerted to Luciya to move me from the edge and she did so, barely containing her laughter. Jerewyn wasn't so contained, outright bent double in glee while Miles sat on his haunches, tongue lolling looking far too pleased with himself at my discomfort. It was only at a cried "'Ey, Captain!" did I pull my consciousness together enough to realise that Ryndan was walking towards us- also with a too-happy grin on his face.

"Ladies! What a fine surprise to run into you this day." Luciya had abandoned me to hold my sea air-legs on their own as I was left to work my way out of vertigo. I cursed her as I wobbled my way across the fine stone landing to them, Ryndan still sending me amused glances.

Luciya was ever so quick to fill Ryndan in on the source of my troubles. "Cersae just found out that Dalaran isn't like most cities, being airborne and all."

Oh great, another wave of nausea.  _Thanks, Luce_. Bending my knees, I cradled my head in my hands, hoping that the closer I was to the floor the less likely it would hurt if the city suddenly dropped.

"That is unfortunate, if I had known you were unaware, I would have warned you sooner," I heard Ryndan's voice drifting my way, still entirely too amused for me to even consider giving him a polite response, friendship be damned. My head was reeling.

We were in the sky. By the clouds. The sky. We were  _in it._

Laughter broke through my reverie and I spied three people and one wolf, smiling amongst themselves and chatting amicably, familiarly.

It was with a distinct pang that I realised that someone looking in on this would feel left out, not a part of it, but that wasn't the case. Instead I saw warmth, and security as they listened to each other (Jerry mainly, she was yapping away excitedly, I could only gather that she knew Ryndan already somehow), their attentions never wavering from each other. Even Miles seemed to belong, Ryndan's long hand idly rubbing and scratching away at the wolf's ear. Standing up, another realisation washed over me. This is probably what Ryndan looks like talking about his sisters, or  _with_ his sisters. He had confided in me once that he had four, two older, two younger, and right now I was watching him sink into a brotherly role with two women who he clearly cared for and were possibly as close to him as his own kin.

His green eyes were bright with warmth, his smile relaxed and natural. His attire, I could now notice, was crisp and sharp and he was becoming himself again. I could see not only the confident soldier from Lights Hope Chapel and Valgarde, but the man who I had spent a significant amount of time with the last few weeks. One cutting image of a man tossing in his sleep, whimpers escaping his lips, apologies to unknown ghosts resting on his tongue assaulted me momentarily and I realised just how far he had come since then. And what was more, he had let me witness that.

Briefly, I wondered if I had anything to do with it, even marginally, but then I found myself laughing at the thought, for wouldn't it be ironic for someone who was clinically dead teaching someone else how to live again.

But watching Ryndan talk about his work, how he was at the landing site for some training, how he was back amongst his family-away-from-home, I had to wonder if that wasn't the case and if the nausea I was now feeling was related to my sudden revelation about the city, or if it was tied to something else entirely…something to do with the way he looked at me like he didn't with the two women either side of him.


	55. Winter's Veil

"Lieutenant-Commander we just got you back, must you throw your shoulder out again after only being with us for a week?"

"Apologies, Commander Ashwood, but Krillik is not a well-tempered beast. In fact I'd wage he's very cunning. The past few days have been devoted to  _bonding_ , as Ms Francis called it. We were just to become familiar with the creatures, but I fear he lead me into a false sense of security so that when I attempted to mount him this morning for the first time…he threw me far and hard across the landing," Ryndan reported. He was nursing a bruised right shoulder which had undergone enough brutality in the past month thank you very much. His long-lasting good mood had finally been soured after the events of this morning and he had to go back tomorrow to face off with his charge once more. He found himself dreading it already.

"You just have to get him to trust you. My own mount was very receptive, in fact, and once she realised my respect and trust in her, everything fell into place afterwards," she commented as they meandered the training ground of the barracks. Soldiers practiced swordwork, shield-bearing, axe-wielding and mace-handling all around them. Some others lounged at the sidelines, their exercise finished or catching their breath. Groups of two or three here and there practiced hand-to-hand combat and Ryndan resisted the urge to intervene and show them how to deflect properly, however his arm was slung temporarily once more, much to his chagrin.

"You were very lucky to get the pick of the lot, Commander, I was not so fortuitous," he grumbled.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, Sir, merely complimenting your skill in animal-handling."

"I'm sure you were," she said with a knowing smirk before business fell upon them again. They discussed today's remaining agenda, including checking on the various blacksmiths repairing and making new armaments and armour which fell to Ryndan. "Avoid the sewer entrances," she commented before he departed. "There's been a couple of murders through the night. Unsavoury people, or so the city guard reported to us, but be on the lookout anyway."

Giving his thanks, Ryndan frowned as he left the barracks with stock lists in tow. Murder in any city wasn't uncommon, but why would they report to the Crusade about it? There was the local militia, who policed such matters every day and they were the visiting Crusaders, who took no dealings in the day to day running unless called upon. Even as he navigated the now-familiar streets, Ryndan couldn't fathom it any more.

The day went smoothly from then on in. Having a number of orders placed at many a black-smith and other crafters to accommodate their hefty ranks, Ryndan had to pull a lot of legwork. His time out and about recently had bolstered his stamina and such excursions no longer strained him, though it didn't stop him from passing out at the end of the day either. Most of the central smithies checked out, ahead of their schedule in some cases much to his pleasure, and two or three even allowed Ryndan a critical eye of the work. He had apprenticed under his father for a few years as a boy, the man unable to tear away from the art even after opening the vineyard with his mother, and Ryndan recalled sitting on a crate as a child watching his father work diligently. The rhythmic clang of hammer-on-steel was as lullabying to him as his mother's singing had been. Even though he had taken up paladinship like his older sister before he had any serious hand in smithing, he was still knowledgeable enough to repair his own armour and know good work when it was presented to him. It was possible that this was why Ashwood had sent him on this particular errand, due to this extra bit of expertise he possessed. He found the equipment was of a very high and decent standard and confirmed the prices before leaving amicably. Ryndan found himself musing how much he liked doing the grunt work like this, and much preferred it to being on the front lines. The aroma of fire and metallurgy was more immediately nostalgic than any letter from home could have been.

His thoughts carried him through the afternoon while his feet carried him from forge to shop until his work was complete and he was accosted mid-stride home. He hadn't had time to draw his ceremonial shortsword before Walden urged him into a secluded corner on the street. It took Ryndan a moment to calm and a swear beneath his breath before he was civil enough to address the man.

"Walden you had best make this quick, I have many important duties to attend-"

"Dan, I wouldn't have approached you in a sudden hurry if it wasn't urgent, would I?"

Ryndan regarded the flustered man and agreed that no, he wouldn't have. In fact, Walden was looking even more dreadful than before, his hollow cheek now spreading to his eye socket and Ryndan could clearly see the Baron's yellowing skull and the beginnings of peeling internal musculature.

"What's the matter? Is it Cersae?" Ryndan's mind was flooded with worst-case scenarios and Walden's jitters weren't doing anything to convince him otherwise.

"No, I don't think so. Or perhaps it was. I'm not sure."

" _What_? Make some sense please." There was a manic look that Ryndan recognised as battle-fatigue and stress-induced mania but he didn't think Walden would have any cause to suffer this. In fact, he was looking around nervously and the paladin stood back a little to admire the state of him. His clothes were now ragged at the knees and elbows, his bones protruding at the collar and his skin was the unhealthiest shade of grey he'd ever seen on the man. Even his weapon's belt was hanging precariously on his jutting hipbones. "Walden," Ryndan started calmly, causing the undead's focus to swivel back. "What's going on?"

"I need to speak to Cersae."

A pause.

"Then go and speak with her, Walden. That's not cause enough for you to attack me in the middle of the  _street,"_  Ryndan hissed, noting the few glances they were getting from pedestrians. A plumed helmet over the crowd informed him that a patrol was soon to pass. "Come!" he pulled Walden rather ungraciously out of viewing eye down an alley. The Forsaken had followed listlessly and without resistance and Ryndan knew that his friend wasn't right. Scrutinising him further, the paladin grew tense. "Walden, what's going on, why can't you see her?"

"She won't see me on my own. I think I- no, I may have ...done something stupid." His eyes were shifting this way and that, clutching at straws that he couldn't reach, invoking panic with each passing moment.

"Such as?"

His flaked lips drew into a grim line and Walden glared out to the distance. With a frustrated sigh, Ryndan ran his hands through his hair (needs cut again, he thought). "Never mind that then, what do you want to talk to her about?" A barely perceivable shake of the head was his answer. The gaping hole in his face forced the illusion of a permanent grimace fixed upon Walden's face and it only added to the wild look about him. "Do you mean her any harm?"

The Baron's face whipped around so fast that Ryndan feared for his head to snap from his spine. "Of course I don't!" he cried.

"Calm down! I was only checking." Ryndan lowered the hands that had flown up in defence. "Why don't you just go visit her?"

"I don't know where she is, Dan."

"Walden- she's in the hospital."

"She's there?"

"Of course, she required treatment. You saw her in Naxxramas, she was on the verge of death-"

"Ryndan," Walden stated very seriously. "I haven't seen Cersae since … since Venomspite. One day she was there, another she was in Naxxramas. She walked off with them. To Naxx."

The elf stalled his response, taking the chance to breathe deeply and consider this. Cersae hadn't confided in him yet why she had been in Naxxramas in the first place, but it was evident, to him at least- and by agreement of Lynara and Bart also after they initially returned- that she did not go voluntarily especially judging by the reception she had received while in there. Lynara had told Ryndan in the past that he had seen Walden take Cers out of the encampment on the day of her disappearance when they had sat together after the funerals. So now he had to consider if the Baron was lying to him, or if he genuinely didn't know how she wound up there.

This was tricky. Ryndan wasn't unused to being around battle fatigue or mania-post-trauma. Several of his own soldiers had succumbed to it on various levels- sometimes it was enough for them to break down and cry it out. Other times, they had rocked slowly or paced, muttering. A few lost their tempers easily or for no apparent reason, channelling it out physically until exhaustion cradled them. This was the lower end of the spectrum, the most common and frequent he had experienced. The further end – from what he'd personally witnessed- involved self-harm and mutilation to the point of limb-loss and one person adamantly convinced that she was the king of Stormwind. Ryndan himself had slid along the scale in his time, anywhere from grief and horror to fear of sleep and shadows in the dark. His faculties had remained intact for the most part, but he was subconsciously prepared for that to change at any given moment. Which is why he recognised the symptoms in his friend before him. Mania was not easily feigned and the paladin felt that by now he was as qualified as any head-doctor to confirm as such.

"Walden, listen very carefully, I need you to answer this question immediately and without hesitation." Walden nodded gravely and Ryndan almost felt like he was dealing with a child. "Walden- how do you know Cersae went there of her own free will?"

"Because she told me she would."

"When?"

"In Venomspite."

"Did she say why?"

"No, she didn't."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"I see. And you want me to arrange a meeting with her?"

"Yes."

The Lieutenant-Commander solemnly regarded his old friend. The man was distressed, but he knew Walden to be something of a sly actor. His gut was caught between trust and distrust, whispering to him that this was a hoax, a lie and not to trust him, but his mind was arguing how long he had known Walden. Rickety and almost vulnerable, the Baron admitted to having seen Cersae before she left. He couldn't find any rhyme nor reason to think as to why the Baron would be lying but every good lie had a measure of truth, and it was this that Ryndan wavered on. If he wanted to cause Cersae harm, then he could slip to her room without ever alerting Ryndan, but then he had to ask himself why he felt that Walden was even capable of harming their mutual friend. Opposing feelings warred strife within him and his decision was well thought out. He compromised between the two.

"Very well, I'll arrange a meeting in a public venue- the Legardemein Lounge, in fact, tomorrow at midday. I finish my training then, so I can escort her without suspicion."

"Thank you Dan, I just need to know she's safe and well."

"You didn't-" Ryndan almost accused Walden of not being so concerned when they went on their visit to the Warlock, but bit his tongue. Whatever was going on here, whatever the cause of all of this was, he was determined to find out and didn't want to put Walden on his guard or edge. "Tomorrow, then."

* * *

Luciya cradled the knife gently as though she was dealing with a very old parchment or something equally as delicate. She hadn't spoken since I had gifted the weapon nervously to her, simply eyeing it closely, turning it this way and that. I didn't last long in the silence.

"Ryndan helped me choose it. He says it's small and thin enough to be concealed easy and it's not heavy so should be easy to wield for someone with no experience, you just need to be able to do enough damage to defend yourself after and it's not very fancy because I don't have a lot of money but it's about having something to do the job really and-"

She cut me off with a one-armed hug, pulling me tightly into her shoulder and muffling me into submission.

"Thank you, Cersae. This means a lot to me." All I could do was murmur quietly against her. When we separated she was smiling crookedly, though without her scar I think it would have been a full smile. My shoulders sagged with the weight lifting. Little had I known how terrified I was doing this for her for the up and coming Winter's Veil celebration. I knew we enjoyed each other's company, but I wasn't entirely sure if the feeling as 'friends' was mutual and if this was crossing boundaries or not. Turns out it wasn't. My concern for her welfare had grown the last few weeks with each new bruise and cut or limp she sported and this seemed like the only logical way I could help. So today, after spending the night coughing and sniffling, I had remained indoors and worked up the will to finally impart the knife on to her where she had sat dumb and I had waited numb.

I didn't expect anything in return so when she asked me about the journal, it was my turn to be momentarily struck mute. Thought caught up to brain and I scrambled for my battered bag, handing it over to her cautiously. She thumbed through the pages with practiced ease and I vaguely recalled the first time I awoke in Dalaran- Luciya had been by my side with the journal in her hands. Of course she was familiar with it.

"Aha, here we go." She gave me a look of speculation that I couldn't quite read. "Look, Cers, this might not be the best gift, but I- I think you deserve the truth. You remember I said I knew Edmund in the intimate fashion?"

I nodded, unsure where this was going.

"Well, there was something I never told you. He tended to...well, whimper in the aftermath of our time together all those months ago, and it was always the same thing. It was a name." She took a sharp breath, clearly hesitating. I was unnerved by the part of me that wanted her to say my name. The moment stretched on as she couldn't meet my eyes. "It was this," she handed the journal, opened at a rather used page in a scrawl not-mine. Three stanzas of a poem were presented to me and my eyes flew across the words I had heard Edmund say so clearly in my dream-state only a few weeks ago.

How- how was that even possible? I had never lain eyes on this piece before and yet the words, they were the ones spoken about by the man whose handwriting this belonged to in my ear within my own very  _subconscious._ It wasn't until my unbelieving gaze raked the words back upwards did I catch the title.

_For Earalith_

Earalith. My middle name, the one gifted to me from my mother. The one I cherished and treasured throughout my childhood, coveting it so much that I couldn't bear to be known as my first name of Cersae. It had been my only connection to the woman I scarcely remembered and I had clung to it as a child might a toy for comfort. Swiftly was I thrown back into memories long past when I had been forced to flee Stormwind under Edmund's guiding hand. It had been then we had travelled to the Undercity, where I adopted a false image and my true name to go into hiding. The name I had given up on, rejected and discarded once again became my own all because of him. I had learned to let go of the ghost of my mother to find myself and it  _was because of him._

_"A countenance in which did meet. Sweet records, promises as sweet…"_  the words passed my lips flawlessly but it was Edmund's voice I heard saying it. Promises, promises of a new life, of the Undercity and freedom to grow and do alchemy. The letters beneath my fingers were just poetry to others, but to me, to me it was memory and nostalgia and loss of what never came to be. And now, in my own personal journal, something he clearly got his hands on after my Turning, was his work, his writing as an ode to me.

And I felt nothing.

Luciya had been watching me carefully the whole time, this I was aware of. And instead of revealing my neutrality of the presentation, I thanked her for showing it to me and assured her that I know who Earalith is and that it was well. A burden seemed to lift from my friend and she told me how he had written it. How the man we both knew was grief-stricken but determined to find me and that when she found me in Valgarde, she just had to see what I was like. I listened attentively, imagining Edmund in such a state of frenzy, penning the poem onto the journal I had left behind after Turning and finding I could muster nothing, not a semblance of the joy I had in my dream-world. Hollowly did I smile, feigning happiness at something I felt nothing for and together we admired the flowing words dedicated to a phantom version of me that had died three years ago.

* * *

Cersae's eyes pleaded, no  _begged_ , for aid as Ryndan bade his polite farewells and he smiled secretly at her, offering a sly wink and a curt wave of his hand as he left the two of them alone. He had lured her here, and he did feel a twinge of guilt, but the truth was he thought she missed Walden's presence as much as he did hers. He knew she wasn't as busy now he had returned to work and there was a distance in her eyes that he had caught on occasion whenever Ryndan had mentioned the man. Their abstaining from one another was a mystery to the paladin, but Ryndan figured it was something to do with why Cersae entered Naxxramas, and perhaps she was too ashamed to meet with the Baron after the event.

And so he had told a white-lie, turning up after Luciya had departed that morning and informing the lady that she was to accompany him to luncheon. She had been adorably startled and her head wrap had nearly tumbled completely from her head, but she caught it in time for him to only catch a glimpse of some faint strands. While she had fussed about getting ready, he had been gentlemanly in his waiting and politely admired the room. His head had entertained thoughts of a Winter's Veil gift and had flitted around several ideas ranging from brooches to a neck piece to simply taking her to the bookshop again. However his silent prayers were answered when he spotted the tattered bag in the corner. Second, possibly fifth, hand, the offending article was torn at the seams and worn with use. She had taken it around with her on previous excursions into Dalaran but he had never paid it much attention. Quite settled on his idea, he led her out asking about how she had entertained herself this past week.

His arm was out of its sling, allowing him to escort her. They had linked arms, a near-slip forcing him to nearly order her to hold onto his proffered arm and she had uncharacteristically accepted with a rather shy smile. The whole affair was the most domestic thing Ryndan had done and he was very aware that people passing by would mistake them as courting. The thought, he found, wasn't an unpleasant one but he decided not to let it linger too long, instead turning his attentions to their direction of travel, making sure she wasn't slipping on the iced pavements with a firm arm holding her own steady. She laughed at him as he told her about Krillik, the beast that he was. She teased him for being bested by his steed and insisted that she meet the creature at some point. That had surprised him, for her unnecessary and poorly-hidden fear of Miles had been evident to him that day on the Landing. They continued on like this, content in each other's company and he found himself bitter at leaving her, and at leaving her with someone she was possibly purposely avoiding. She would forgive him, hopefully, if this all turned for the better.

And so when they had arrived for lunch at the Lounge, he directed her to a particular table and informed her of a guest joining them. She was much excited, thinking it was Lynara - who she confessed she hadn't seen going on six days now- before her face fell as a skeletal shadow cast across their table.

"Hello, Little Girl."

Her hands gripped the arms of her wooden chair so tightly that her knuckles were going beyond white. Chuckling- but slightly startled- at her nerves, Ryndan uncurled the hand and whispered that she would be fine, and that he would be back later to pick her up. She had all but scrambled for him as she clutched his arm, not even hiding the fear in her large, silver eyes. Prying her fingers from him, boldly did he kiss her knuckles in an effort to calm her. It worked temporarily as they shared a look over her hand.

"Just enjoy the catch up, you both missed each other," Ryndan had said before leaving a desperate looking woman in his wake. Not a particularly frequent occurrence, he ruminated. Out of the corner of his eye did seek out another patron. Ryndan had seen him upon arrival, but couldn't acknowledge him without alerting Cersae. Tracking the priest down yesterday after his meeting with Walden wasn't so hard, finding him again deep in prayer at the church, but the paladin chose to ignore that at Lynara's own whim and instead asked him to attend today's meeting. He wasn't trusting enough to leave Walden alone with her without protection, and so Lynara had quietly agreed to attend. It was also a way of securing his friend some food, for he couldn't sit and watch the estranged pair unless he ordered and kept his table. Satisfied that Lynara was there (and eating), Ryndan left the tavern, willing himself not to look back.

Now that he had an hour or so on his hands, he decided to explore the streets to replace that bag of hers. After all, Ryndan thought, she'd probably appreciate something more practical anyway. Not really one for extravagance and trinkets, was his Cersae.

* * *

Snow-covered and frost-bitten did the Paladin return to the inn, the weather having turned on him halfway through his venture. The inn was less full, the alienated time between lunch and dinner not inviting many in, however with the recent gusts and gales, he expected that may change as they sought shelter. He stamped his feet, shaking off dirt and snow before throwing his hood back to seek her. Slumped shoulders, drawn-in face and a tense aura built her image in front of him and he frowned. He secondly sought out Lynara who was making his way towards him, stiff from sitting so long.

"Well met, Lynara."

"Well met, Ryndan." They both regarded the lone woman in the corner. "He left not too long ago, and she's been lost in thought ever since. I didn't hear them, but it appeared to be quite heated at one point." That made Ryndan frown. Perhaps the outcome of the meeting wasn't so successful as he would have hoped. Mid-stride towards her did he pause to overlook the other elf.

"And you, are you well?" The question was laden with other meanings, obvious and heavyset.

"I am well enough," was the answer. It was quiet and possibly forced, but Ryndan could ask for no more. A sly glance to the table revealed a half-eaten meal that had been abandoned. It was better than nothing.

"I am glad to hear it, come, hear what she has to say." When the priest made no movement, a hesitant glance to the door instead, Ryndan smiled patiently. "She's missed you, come sit with us." He made a quick order to the bar patron who had been watching them out of the corner of his eye since Ryndan had arrived, curious as to whether they would actually purchase or not, and made his way through the clustered masses of tables.

The pale woman nearly jumped from her chair when they approached, visibly deflating with relief at the company. Her face lit up and she fled past Ryndan to wrap her arms around Lynara's waist and the priest was as stunned as he was, mouth bobbing fish-like before settling on returning the hug. They shared that moment together while Ryndan settled himself and his carefully wrapped package down at the table. Smiling, he was relieved to see Lynara less stiff and tried to ignore the growing aspect of Cersae's emotional range and actions, and what that might entail for her healing mentality. Garrick the Warlock's words had not left Ryndan, but the paladin had decided not to let them dictate what he felt with his time he spent with the woman.

They both broke apart with soft smiles, finding a different kind of healing within each other that Ryndan couldn't provide either of them, a truly sibling-like relationship that neither had experienced- a younger sister and older brother. It warmed the Crusader in ways a fire never could. They too then seated, embarrassed at the moment, equally flushing while Ryndan perceived them until their drinks arrived, with broth for the three of them. Cersae immediately made for it,the elf noting that the table was bare of dishes apart from two goblets that Walden must have ordered. Lynara watched Cersae softly, not batting an eyelid at the bowl and bread, and Ryndan allowed himself a spoonful of homemade thawing that his bones were grateful for.

He then decided to shatter the moment.

"How did it go with Walden?"

Comically, she stilled mid-spoonful, spilling her broth in small 'plops' of stunned silence before her face grew dark and her back straight.

"He wanted to know 'how I'd been'." Her voice, now almost lyrical and light, was infused with bitter and cynicism, twisted ugly by feelings strongly felt but never known by the Paladin from her. "What I'd been 'up to'."

"And that's a bad thing?" he prodded gently. Her eyes sought him almost accusatory, fading to hardened instead. She replied tersely that 'yes, it was'. Ryndan almost didn't ask 'why', the look in her eyes almost forbidding it, but Lynara beat him to the chase, asking it calmly and without thought to the consequences. It was the most like himself Ryndan had seen him this past week even if he had no idea what had occurred for such a thing to upset the man.

"Because he said he hadn't seen me since Venomspite!" Arms waved incredulously as her anger, possibly only stewing since Walden had left, flared briefly. "We argued about him lying to me, why even bother with the pretence, what was he trying to do if not mess with my head after he threatened me?" The statement hung between the three of them, two coming to the realisation that the opposite of it was true and the third reeling in horror at the revelation.

"Cersae, I think there's something going on here that you need to tell us. Right now, please." Ryndan hated the way she flinched at his authoritarian tone, but something serious was underlying here and they didn't deserve to be left in the dark. With the stares of two men bearing down on her, high strung as she was already, her walls crumbled and the story spilled out.

Walden had trapped her, literally walking her off of the cliff and into the clutches of those that tortured her in Naxxramas.

She had nearly died in Naxxramas, retreating internally to escape. The first thing she remembers thereafter is awaking in Dalaran.

The Baron had visited her when both paladin and priest attended the funerals of their fallen. The Baron had threatened her life if she spoke out about Walden's revealed plans at Venomspite.

Walden had been responsible for Cersae Turning into a death knight in the first place.

Walden had been responsible for Cersae three years ago when he sought to trap Edmund into Lich King service for espionage.

Walden had been responsible for Cersae after the Battle for Light's Hope Chapel, and placed her in the direct care of the Argent Crusade to get her to Northrend for him.

Walden had been responsible for Cersae when he had whisked her away against Ryndan's wishes to be a pawn against the Royal Apothecary Society. He had manipulated and used her mercilessly with deceit and lies about Edmund.

Walden had been responsible, and he had failed her.

Neither Ryndan nor Lynara found the words to interrupt her, allowing her to confess that which made her anxious. The anger bubbling incessantly within him was lidded only by his vague awareness of being in a public place and the respect he had for Cersae as she explained herself hoarse. The soups were stone-cold, as was Ryndan's face. Lynara made first comment, asking who Edmund was and his role in all of this. When Ryndan managed to interject that he was, no  _is_ \- he corrected to after a startled look from the woman on his right- a very dear and close friend to Cersae who means a great deal to her. He briefly explained how she was searching for his whereabouts and the progress he knew of so far. She could only nod here and there, her throat resting after nearly two hours of straight talking, the daylight now dimming further and tavern mood picking up. Cersae may have missed the pointed- and saddened- look Lynara gave the other man, but Ryndan most certainly did not. It wasn't a topic he wished to discuss with Lynara right now. Or ever.

Instead they ruminated between them, allowing digestion of all this new information. The only thing that baffled Ryndan was why would the Baron say he hadn't seen Cersae since Venomspite? It was only because Lynara answered him did he realise he'd spoken aloud.

"You should probably be aware of how unwell he is."

"What?"  
"What do you mean?"

Ryndan and Cersae echoed in tandem. Lynara sat straighter, reminding Ryndan of the visit to Garrick and how pensive and teacher-like he had been then.

"The Baron Walden is deteriorating, it's not a secret to your eyes how he is literally falling apart." They nodded seriously at him envisioning the skull slowly emerging from lifeless flesh. "I can sense it in him, though it was difficult to hone upon in a mass such as here," he indicated to the wide room around them. "It was only towards the end of his visit that I managed to pick up on it-"

"Wait, you were here this whole time?" Cersae cut across, her voice straining but determined.

"Yes, I was. Ryndan didn't want you to be without an ally today." Ryndan could have cursed the priest for attempting to champion him to the small woman, knowing fine well Lynara could have left out that detail and probably would have if it weren't for the revelation of a former-possibly-not-former suitor of Cersae's to him. The fact that the priest was made awares of how Ryndan had started feeling towards Cersae was enough to make his cheeks flush, never mind with embarrassment at being outed to her. He tried to ignore the look of stunned gratitude on her pale features and urged Lynara to continue with a glare and terse word.

The smirk that had been absent as of late graced the priest's face and Lynara was this close to a military-standard-size-nine-shaped-footstamp on his backside. "Anyway, I managed to pick up on what's plaguing him and I'm afraid the outlook isn't good." All pretence of smugness fell immediately in favour of seriousness and a look Ryndan recognised without hesitation as condolence. "I'm afraid he's rotting, and not just on the outside. It's spread to his mind, his brain. There's no way to determine how long it's been corroding, or where to. It's literally drying up and shrinking and it's probably affected his memory, more than likely, I'd say. His behaviour will possible be more erratic until-"

"I see," the paladin didn't want to hear the words. Not a few minutes ago he would have been ready to string the Baron up and separate head from body by adding weights to each leg but now the thought of his demise made him ill. Years, decades he had known the man and his actions upon one being whom he himself had only known a few months had shattered that image. But now, knowing that Walden was decaying from the inside out, it made him feel ill. They had spoken about the extermination and end of the Forsaken race, but that seemed years, decades away if not more, but this, this brought it to the immediate forefront and he drew a shaky breath to still himself.

"What are you saying?" Her words were whispered and scared as they floated across the conversation and permeated Ryndan's thoughts.

"What I'm saying is that perhaps- perhaps due to this, this  _fester_  within him, your friend may not have been within his right mind," Lynara answered with a sudden frown. "It's entirely possible that your friend has been suffering it for some time, at undetermined intervals to enhance or even outright cause temper such as you witnessed and experienced where he may not have otherwise done so intentionally. And yet now it flares worse than before, for the simple reason that he cannot fight the blight plaguing him and he is confused out of his own head. His actions were not his own. You were the recipient because you were the closest to him, and perhaps…then perhaps you're the only one who can aid him."

"What can I do?"

"At this point, when they're at their worst, even when they've dealt you pain like no other that you didn't deserve, when he's at his absolute lowest point…the only thing you can do is- is to forgive him," the priest finished quietly.

Ryndan stared. Through his talk, the priest had displayed an array of emotions from hurt and fear to worry and hurtful remembrance. Lynara hadn't just been talking about Mort and it was with a startling comprehension did Ryndan realise that he hadn't seen- or heard about- Bart from either of the friends beside him recently. Since Naxxramas the priest had scarcely been without his company and now he was notably absent and had been for a few days at the very least. Something had transpired, an argument or altercation, and Lynara's recent conduct and vigilant praying made sense. He almost asked Lynara about it. The tip of his tongue was wet with the words begging to be asked, but they were forcefully bit and swallowed as Ryndan watched the priest. A calm had settled over him, it was shaky and rickety, but the foundation of moving on was solid and so Ryndan left it alone. He did vow to confront Lynara should this arise again, but he could see that for now, a new determination nestled in the slim shoulders and Ryndan was left with a breath of relief thinking that he might just be all right.

Cersae, he wasn't so sure about.

He could see it, the terror and fear she had lived under the past few weeks in Dalaran that any moment Walden may appear and harm her- or attempt to- and now she was faced with accepting that he wasn't truly intending to do so unless he took another turn into the wrong frame of mind. He thought she was dealing rather well with it, either that or it was too shocking for her to take in fully. He judged her face, the way her lips turned down at the corner, matching the furrowing of her brow as her eyes distantly regarded the table in contemplation. Her headscarf was tucked neatly around her head, the sizeable bundle now as natural to her look as her silver gaze. She was pale, but not sickly so, just milky-white with high cheeks and slender neck.

If he should have been worried about anything, it wasn't her, he decided. She was fine- or would be. He however, had immediately compartmentalised the news that Walden too was facing termination at any moment as well as Cersae. The thoughts of such happenings were dealt with swiftly and boxed away before he could focus too much on the implications, staving panic and fear and premature grief.

It was with heavy hearts, thinking of different people did they sit that day.

* * *

Night had fallen early, the solstice of winter around the corner and the streets were as empty as Ryndan had seen them at this time. They had left the inn dejectedly, lost in their own thoughts only parting ways when Lynara said he had to visit the tailor emporium. He and Cersae shared a brief farewell, complete with another hug, before the priest turned to him. He left Ryndan with four whispered words and a knowing look before departing on his errand and in a daze did he walk Cersae back to her ward.

His duties were absent today, only so much paperwork to be done while on resting leave and his training this morning had been the entirety of his agenda which had left his afternoon free. It was with this knowledge did he accompany her back to her room where she too walked in a daze, emotionally tilted no doubt while she tried to wrap her head around the news delivered by Lynara. After a brief romance with the thought of just leaving, he waved it away and decided to stay, spurred on by his heightened emotions from earlier and that the thought of leaving her alone right now wasn't bearable.

Cersae stood in the centre of the room, at the bottom of her partially-made bed. Her gaze was looking out of the window but her focus was not.

"I told him to leave me alone. To stop tormenting me with his games. I asked if he felt even a shred of guilt at playing with me like this, like a toy to be tossed aside at a moment's convenience. Do you know what he said?" she turned to look at him, silent by the doorway. "He said he had nothing to feel guilty about," she laughed bitterly. "I told him that 'a clear conscience is usually a sign of a bad memory," if you can believe it."

"He must have looked befuddled."

"Did you just say 'befuddled'?"

"I did."

"No one says 'befuddled' anymore."

"I do."

"Evidently."

"I also say 'abashed', 'bemused' and 'discombobulated," his face was as poker straight as his back.

She stared at him momentarily in bewilderment before crumpling with spontaneous glee. What started out as a dubious giggle soon climbed to peals of crystal laughter and she had to clutch the bed for support. Ryndan was smiling beside himself, glad to have dispensed of the heaviness resting above them both, at least for now, and watched as she composed herself, a fresh flush on her cheeks. When she turned to him a look crossed her features that he hadn't seen before. It wasn't alarm, or fear, but some mix of apprehension and sudden understanding but of what, he didn't know. She coughed lightly, proceeding to dispense of her damp cloak and bag before Ryndan realised his package still rested in his arms.

"Cersae, if I may, I have a gift for you- for Winter's Veil," the words tumbled out, nervous and hasty and he berated himself for sounding like his teenage sisters. With as much poise he could muster, he held out the package to woman, her mouth hanging open in an 'o' fashion and eyebrows raised high. Tentatively did her slender hands reach for it and take it unto her own. The time in which she unwrapped the bag was strung out so long that Ryndan unknowingly held his breath for the length of it until he felt dizzy. A gasp escaped her as her silver eyes darted over every detail, every stitch and buckle of the new item. It wasn't expensive, but it wasn't cheap either. It was a decent price for a very decent bag and he was content in that- as was she, he saw. She started to empty her other bag, tipping it upwards and allowing trinkets and knick-knacks galore to tumble out. An orb- a curiously strange crystal sphere, fell from the bed towards him and he picked it up. Analysing it, he recognised it from somewhere- a trip some time ago.

"I- Ryndan, I don't know what to say. Thank you, this is gorgeous." Her words forced his gaze to her and she was transformed. Elven features were no more, human, round and soft were presented before him. Her frame, no longer wiry, was slender and recovering, but healthier all the more for it. Her eyes weren't slanted, but large and inviting, her ears, no longer pointed and long were small and hidden beneath her headwrap and her mouth was –her lips, they were pink, much pinker than before and her human image as a whole was the most natural thing he had ever seen. And when she looked at him, with stars in her eyes and a smile all for him did he waiver and crumble.

The feelings, so barred away by a dam of his own making, the growing attraction and want for the woman demanding more attention with each sight of her flooded him and he choked on the force of it. He hadn't allowed himself the luxury, the idea of ever telling her, never mind acting upon them. She enjoyed his company, he knew that, but anything beyond that she had never given any indication. He had no prior experience to chalk this up to and was lost in the torrent suddenly overwhelming him.

She watched as he drowned, swam and struggled against it, unable to stop his own eyes communicating every detail of his futile attempts to withstand it until he took one breath and calm overcame him. Concerned, she walked towards him, not knowing that instead of saving him, instead of being the buoy to keep him afloat, she was the stone tethered to his ankle, pulling him further down with each step until she stood in front of him.

"Ryndan?" her voice was distant, far away and oh so clear. The waves that overtook him were silver and heavy with emotion and he let himself be swept away.

"This is an Orb of the Sin'Dorei," he mustered, the memory from all so long ago coming to him sharply. A visit to Stormwind many years ago on Dawn business and he had seen the artefact up close and knew what it did. They were rare, very rare, and he had heard reports that the one he had seen in Stormwind had been stolen. He wondered briefly if that was that same orb. She had regarded the object as though seeing it from the first time.

"I- yes," she started slowly. "It was given to me by- well, to disguise me. Humans were rare in the Undercity so I was to blend in." She took it gently from his hand, the strange orb swirling mystically between them. When he had seen it, the item had been nestled on a velvet cushion behind glass and he only remembered it so clearly because he was amazed there existed such an item to make someone else look like his own race. And here she was, turning it in her own hands. "I forgot I had it, to be honest. I haven't really emptied the bag since Mort brought it back to me." Earnest was the only thing she held in her face as she looked back up at him and it was at this that he reached out for her headwrap. Silently he unfurled it enough for it to fall apart at its own before it gave way completely.

Brown hair, thick and long, only faint traces of her former white interspersed, completed her. No longer did he hold any questions about her or her history. Why she went to Naxxramas he now knew. Why she had been The Butcher, she had confessed. What she had done in those three years and afterwards, she had no hidden from him, and he saw her for herself for the first time since their meeting. Her eyes were not dead, they were alive and they were focused on him. She wasn't slumped or caged, she was upright and free. She wasn't sickly, she was healthy and full of vitality. She wasn't a blood elf, she was a human woman, and he'd be damned if he watched her back walk away from him again.

She had seen him at his worst, terrors from the raid on Naxxramas inflicting his one haven of sleep and she alone had brought him out with angelic visage. She had seem him on the battlefield, the crimes he committed in the name of The Light. She had seen him in temper, in anger and at his most vulnerable. And he wanted her to keep on seeing him.

Lynara's parting words for the night echoed in his mind as he read her face for silent permission.

_"You're here, he's not."_

She nodded and met him halfway, on tip toes as he bent down.

It was brief, and fumbled, neither experienced enough or brave enough to move any further beyond this. She still held the orb, he the white scarf, and their only point of contact was the sweet connection where they breathed each other in and smiled into it. Her lips were cool, cold almost, but soft and inviting as he tasted her for their brief moment. When they pulled apart, he was stunned and she was –

" _Befuddled_ , you look befuddled," he found himself saying with a wide smile. Though behind that smile held misgivings- what if that was a thank you for the bag, what if it was unsatisfactory, what if she remembered Edmund as easily as he had finally dismissed the memory of the man following them? They all dissipated when she regarded him wholly with a faint smile.

"No one says 'befuddled'," she repeated mischievously. "I- I didn't know that would be so…nice," the confession was whispered but he laughed.

"I apologise for exceeding your expectations," he laugh was hearty and true with relief but inside he was quaking still. "So you er, you like the bag then?" She blinked at him blankly at the question before turning to look at the messy bed. She made the connection before flushing once more. Ryndan decided to make her do that more often.

"Yes I do, but I haven't gotten you anything yet, I didn't know what to and I've been thinking about it since we went to get Luci something but nothing seemed right-"

"Take care of me." She stopped short, giving him the look he would be giving himself if watching from the outside of this conversation. A look of  _'what?'_. But he had started now and he wasn't going to stop. The selfish streak, now spurned on by Lynara's words, by the imminent fear of losing her or Walden or both, made him want to want this and he was going to follow this as far as she would let him. "Take care of me, like you have done since we met. You saved me at Light's Hope Chapel. You saved me in the Catacombs of Utgarde, and you even left the Crusade to save me and everyone else. You've been a rock to me since Naxxramas and I never thought someone as small as you would be able to not only get me back on my feet, but support me wholly. You've rescued me in more ways than I can count and I ask that you continue and all that that implies by asking you to stay by my side."

The human woman, twenty-one years of age and the one person in the world who held his fragile self betwixt her hands stood before him mouth agape. It wasn't an immediate 'no' and the adrenaline that Ryndan usually craves and seeks was high and taking him on a ride so wild that nothing in his military career compared. His heart was pounding, breath shallow and shaky, his muscles were ready to flee for the door and he hadn't moved since arriving into this room. His toes curled in his socks and boots, hands unknowingly knotting the headscarf as he awaited her answer.

"I- I fear what this bag must have cost for you to ask such a thing."

Dumbly, he narrowed his eyes wondering her meaning. She thought the bag was to…to woo her? To secure her affections? Or to guilt-trip her into this heat-of-the-moment request that he himself had planned on never asking? Did she really think that he-

The sincere smile told him all he needed to know. He was being teased and he fell for it.

"Oh by The Light, woman," he rubbed one hand across his face as the tension spread and he chuckled deeply, embarrassed at being tricked. Her hand joined his as it cradled his face and he saw her below him. Laughter was in her eyes and he couldn't believe the power she held over him. It scared him how much of an effect he let her have over him, but he welcomed it with bubbling excitement.

"I'm not all you make me to be, Ryndan. I think you romanticise this too much but I-" and she hesitated, her confidence waving, "I would like to try, if you would take care of me also."

It was all he needed to hear.

Their second kiss was deeper, it was a promise and it was theirs alone as they held each other gently, wary of the fragility of this new union. It was uncertain, like everything before them and it was home, the home that neither of them had known in so long.

It was a good Winter's Veil.


	56. Interlude IV- Bartheleus

"That wasn't your best work to date."

"I never claimed it to be, but the job is done. Hand over the gold."

The sack wasn't as heavy as Bart wanted it to be but it'd do. He suspected he was deducted for alerting the city guard, but those two cronies hadn't left him well alone. The job had been a simple theft, in and out of the Jewellers. There wasn't supposed to be any complications. Getting in had been easy enough- even if he was out of practice and fitness, however not even his employer anticipated a same-night-same-time robbery from a competitor.

Violently they had chased him across three rooftops, down one alleyway, over a wall until he managed to lose them in late-night crowd. He'd sent Elune more than one prayer of thanks for that timely blessing. He'd managed to blend in long enough to slip away unscathed, but the goons – two heavyset humans who were clearly not only experienced in the art of pricey theft but  _also_ acclimated with the skyline that made up the city of Dalaran- lay in waiting for him at the sewer entrance. Bart himself had only been here a few weeks and most of it had been at ground - or underground- level and so he wasn't surprised to see they had arrived first. Their demise had been swift- though not anywhere as neat as he'd have liked, for sure it would be near impossible to take the bloodstains out of his leather jerkin- and also noisy enough to attract local constabulary. The night elf had made himself scarce, but news of it certainly injured his pay. He could have denied to his overseer, but there would have been no point. The network he had stepped into was only the tip of the iceberg and Bart had little doubt that the reports of his hasty escape and excessive murders reached high ears before he had even descended into the sewers. It was due to this he begrudgingly took the bounty with little argument.

That and he'd be looking for new work otherwise.

Falling into lot with his employer hadn't been hard. The Black Market of the Underbelly had many suppliers, even more competition between them and too many jobs-for-hire for cutpurses and slight-foots like himself. A little advertisement here and there- with the suppliance of a false name of course- and he'd been scooped up by a high-end player of the Market. His worth had been proved by one espionage, info-gathering quest listening upon a rather sordid meeting between two agents in a seedy tavern and  _Solidad_  had sent him on several top-priorities since.

Bart remembered how this worked. Solidad- a teenager with skin browner than bark, eyes greener than leaves in summer and an attitude so cocky that he suspected that bastard Terowin would struggle to hold a candle to- was the forefront for whomever the real profiteer was. Bart wouldn't know his ultimate contractor; he was just a grunt, the footsoldier doing the goods-retrieval for less than a tenth of the profit. But he had no more choice.

Self-exile was a funny thing. One punished oneself for the deeds one did upon another, and yet you resented your own self-inflicted punishment and attempted to hold yourself above it to avoid it affecting you. Bart struggled daily with this, revelling in the chance to throw the dice, bet on the arena, take up a new job and tend whatever injuries he maintained in all of it instead. Tonight's injuries included bruised ribs (still healing from a few days ago), a headache remaining from a hangover he swore started  _yesterday_  morning and an emptiness within him that decided to remain as a void eating everything he could throw at it.

Woman, drink, gambling, adrenaline, recklessness, pain. All of it was swallowed up by his gut and greed and it sated  _nothing_.

As he left one of the darker, most external chambers dedicated to one of many fronts for his employer, Bart, disgruntled, walked away a few gold richer with promises of more work tomorrow once the heat had calmed over this last job. The tavern in the main central vault was certainly tempting. The whores at the brothel held no appeal (and he refused to ruminate on the thought of purchasing a woman knowing full well what it's like to be on the other side of that arrangement) so he walked past it, ignoring all jeers and goads and promises of 'good times, 'andsome' without so much as blinking an eye.

His stomach answered for him as it grumbled violently, reminding him that he hadn't eaten in- what day was it?

The slop he was served allowed Bart the brief toying with the idea of making it into poison instead, but hunger and starvation won out as he downed it breathlessly, hoping to skip past as much of the 'taste' as possible.

Another quarter of his pay went on mead and ale.

The rest to the dice.

Poor judgement, some choice words with his fellow dice throwers, even shitter luck and Bart was convinced the universe hated him. Penniless until his next job, drunk, stinking and pissed off, the man picked a fight to relieve his boredom.

Boredom he called it because once again, 'self-inflicted punishment' was too noble a sentiment to apply to him. That and he would have had to have done something wrong in the first place to warrant such flagellation. Or maybe it wasn't bad enough. Previous employers- before he worked officially at the brothel run by  _her_  and  _her_  lot back in Stormwind, they had been cruel. Cruel, sadistic bastards who took nothing less than sick pleasure in forcing Bart to his absolute lowest and then some. Solidad and his lot- even with his wide smirk, all-seeing eyes and sharp intelligence- were good as far as underground work went. They didn't extort Bart enough. There was no haggling for use of his body- as a whipping post, a sex slave or manservant to please the lady-wife and her friends. A decade and more ago had Bart been subjected to the worst he had known, so maybe that's why he didn't feel like he was punishing himself enough now.

He didn't know what else he could do to atone, to feel punished.

A noose he was too scared of. His blades would never spill his own blood. Staying in – and under- the bath too long sent him into a panic, flailing and sloshing until he escaped it.

He was, in a word, cowardly.

The drink made him forget, but not for long. And angrily reminded of this did he return to his inn- to  _that_  room, to lay in  _that_  bed, paid out until the end of the month already and only place of residence he could afford- to toss and turn in sweat stained blankets where sometimes he hoped he wouldn't wake up.

The bitter disappointment that enveloped him grew greater with each morning that he did.

Tonight was no different. The innkeeper threw him a tight glance as Bart staggered in. Paid or not, deposit or no, if Bart wasn't careful with his drunken behaviour then he  _would_  be kicked out. Not wishing to brave the streets or even worse the sewers, he adopted the straightest posture he could and slowly attempted not to stagger up the wooden stairs that  _creaked_  with each  _fucking_ step. Wasn't there anything in this Light-Forsaken world that would stop the pounding in his head?!

His keys fumbled too loudly for his ears, but he found the door already ajar. Frowning, he was greeted with fresh sheets, a lit lamp and pressed clothes. He didn't remember asking for that, for any of it. The door closed with a click and he made sure to lock it this time, wanting peace so he could greet his headache on his own tomorrow.

Splashing cold water over his face revealed just how filthy he was- dust and dirt covered, grime and gritty smelling, it was no wonder people steered clear of him as he had tread home. The hour was late and he didn't care for how he looked.

Until he saw it.

A curious item rest atop the dresser, an item that didn't make sense in his inebriated mind. As he drew closer, he tentatively reached out, wondering if it was alive. Approximately palm-sized and dark, even up close it didn't seem like much, just a – there was a note beneath it.

He unfolded the paper, seeing the calligraphic curves before reading the words, Bart soon focussed enough to see it.

Round and round they echoed, the words dancing in his head. They whispered, they promised, they taunted, they mocked, they teased and even worse; they comforted.

Through glassy eyes did he see the item. It was made of cloth- dark and burnt, ugly and tainted. Or so he had thought. The ebonweave had been stitched from scraps, that he could see, but the scraps, brought together, made the most beautiful of shapes. Presented before him was a rosebud, fashioned from these unwanted petals, bound and curved to turn such unwanted remnants, from the trash pile and here they formed something elegant and refined. He read the paper again.

_Salvation was created for sinners._

No one heard the sob that broke his throat, nor dried the tears that wet his cheeks. Nobody was present to offer a comforting hand or a kind whisper to the man wrapped around himself. The weight crushing upon him was too great for anyone else to bear with him, and only he could decide if it would end him.

Feeling more fragile than his textile ornament, Bart went broken into the night, and by morning… by morning he had been remade from the scraps of him leftover, by the pieces he wanted to keep.


	57. The Rooks and Pawns Enter Play

"The troops from the Tundra will be en route as of next week, they're expected  _ETA_  is five days. They're not stopping in Dalaran before moving on to the base at Dragonblight, we'll be bringing the supplies to them at Angrathar. Due to this move,  _our_  squadron is moving to the Angra'thar in one week once they've settled. We need everyone packed and armed, is it doable?"

Ryndan scrutinised all the paper spread before them. Himself, Ashwood and McGreaves were in conference after new orders came in, their 'war-room' barely more than a glorified cupboard with a couple of lamps and a plain table. Numbers floated before his eyes, calculations and figures evolving in his mind. "Yes, I believe so," he replied. "The smiths are all up to date and ahead of schedule, as you know from my report. We're expecting the last shipments in four, five days at the latest. Final fittings will be done, rations distributed just before we leave. Yes," he reaffirmed standing straight. "This won't be a problem."

"Good," Ashwood commended him, also drawing to full height. In this light, a darkened room barely illuminated, he saw just how highlighted her scars became. They stood out- tiny dotted markings across all exposed skin. Her face had taken a brunt of the attack from Anub'Rekhan's swarms, and he suspected she was just as equally marked where they filtered into her armour gaps. Such rewards from being a soldier were extremely common, of course, Ryndan sporting his own permanent, natural tattoos that branded him a fighter, but hers were so unique, so defining in their representation that whenever he saw them he flinched. Not because they were ugly, no. In fact most of the time they were fairly unnoticeable thanks to the poultice and extended healing worked on her at the battle scene, but because when he caught sight of them her guttural cries and chokes when she had been trapped in that damned chamber were brought to his mind. Nobody else suffered the effect of being eaten alive in their group apart from her.

He just disliked the reminder.

The news of movement to the Wrathgate wasn't unexpected, in fact they anticipated it weeks ago, but for some reason there had been delays on the forefront. "Summat tae do wi' askin' the dragonflights a' Wyrmrest about killin' their kin-folk," McGreaves has supplied. "There's frostwyrms plaguin' the area so they needed permission tae kill the ancient bones o' the long-dead dragonkin. I guess that was a smar' move on their part, tae ask Alexstrasza, it just held us back a wee bit until the representative got a' audience wi' her."

"I'm glad they did wait," Ryndan uttered, eyes still scanning the carefully detailed maps and parchment. "Otherwise I'd have been in no state to attend the event."

Ashwood interjected, "you're not to enter battle, you'll be there strictly as an advisor. You've made excellent progress, Lieutenant-Commander, but I don't think you're physically there yet." Ryndan smiled in spite of himself.

"I know, Commander, but I wouldn't miss the entry into Icecrown for all the world." McGreaves laughed.

"Aha! That's a lad, glad tae have ye back."

A swift skim over the most recent register gave Ryndan pause, "Commander- Lorik, the shaman, why is he absent?"

"He received word to make swiftly for Valgarde last week, a friend of his required assistance- Thoralius, was it?"

A tingle of remembrance tickled Ryndan as he recalled the draenei from the port. "I'm sorry to hear he requires it. I spoke with him, he's a good man."

"Yes, I too made his acquaintance. The letter was unclear as to the nature of Thoralius' ailment, but made it clear to be of a spiritual nature that required Draenic knowledge. I gave him leave to attend, though he is due back before the week is out," Ashwood informed him.

They continued discussing preparation and time schedules, the monotonous necessities that run the faction really. Ryndan swore he'd be seeing tally marks when he closed his eyes in bed later than night. Instead, as they shuffled parchment and refilled their wine (medicinal, of course, to ward off cold), Ryndan's thoughts drifted. He hadn't seen or heard from two-thirds of the Argent Crusade in months since their ships had been forced to split at Valgarde. He realised with a start that he would see Talia again, that matronly dwarven woman who was kind and motherly to all who passed under her care. She had been present at the Battle for Light's Hope Chapel and he had missed her without even noticing how much. Field-Marshal Heron would be amongst them too. From what they've had reported to them, the Borean Tundra lot didn't have too hard a time- something for which he was grateful for. The paladin felt nauseated at the idea of sweet Talia in Naxxramas. She would have held her own no doubt, but he didn't want her to be scarred by such a thing.

Eventually, after nearly becoming cross-eyed in the process, their plans had been coordinated and finalised, ready to be set in motion at first light. Carefully did they roll the parchments, dim the lights and exit.

The barracks was well-kept, wooden floorboards cleaned by a daily rotating roster of all the inhabitants (something Ryndan didn't have to draw up, for which he was grateful). Lingering aromas of fireplaces and fresh sheets permeated most of the corridors where the doors were kept open for maximum ventilation during the day. The cold was too much so for the windows to be opened in the bunking chambers, so they did it internally instead. It also offered, during the day, a more sociable atmosphere when the soldiers weren't drilling, learning or praying. The latter of the three wasn't a necessity, masses were offered every day and a few devoted souls attended each. Ryndan went occasionally, to keep up face, but like a handful of his peers, he wasn't in the Dawn-come-Crusade for religious reasons.

"The local solicitors are making their rounds next week, by the way, if you have any desire to rewrite your Will," his commander offered as they reached the administration office. It was simply a small room with a lonely desk and chair, spare parchment and ink, and a filing system he suspected few could navigate successfully, a name like 'office' perhaps a bit too grand. His answer was immediate.

"No, I have nothing to alter at the moment." His Will was currently set to inherit everything to his parents and sisters. If he had a spouse and children, it would go to them as a few of the Crusaders specify in their own. It wasn't a common thing to discuss, and Ryndan didn't have a lot to leave should the inevitable occur, but it was a necessity to go through every now and then. And here, in a major city, such documents would be handled swiftly and professionally.

"Very well, I'll advertise a sign-up sheet. Spread word starting tomorrow at morning assembly and make sure those who wish to alter or create one to confirm their names before the end of the week."

"Very good, Sir."

They tidied away the rest of the documents.

"If you see Darksworn before I do, order him to start toning down his extracurricular activities before we head out."

"'Extracurricular activities", Sir?"

She gave him a tired look. "Yes, Darksworn has been keeping company below ground, fighting in the arenas." Ryndan felt his brow shoot skyward. "I've let it go on special grounds. The ring is illegal, yes I know, but it's not regulated by local authority unless something was to really get out of hand. The only reason I didn't forbid him from partaking was because I think it was good for him." She held up one palm as Ryndan opened his mouth to question her. "Hear me out. He is a death knight, and this Endless Hunger you informed me of is certainly a thing; I've had similar reports from others in the Crusade who have spent  _considerably_  more time in their company than we. I figured that if this arena business kept that in check, then there was no harm as long as that was all that he was doing. I've had a couple of people, plus myself, tail him and that's all he does, so I've let it slide but we need to rein it in now. So if you see him first, order him to start backing out."

"I- of course," he nodded formally before adding, "Sir."

"Thank you. The same to you, Soren," she nodded to McGreaves who was swaying dangerously on his feet in desperate need of his bed.

"Aye, aye, C'manner. Ah'll do tha' nae bother," he saluted. A rare chuckle was shared from Commander Ashwood before she dismissed them and the three parted ways. Ryndan heard faint snores and talking as he passed the closed doors of the dorms. Contemplating the thoughts of Terowin, his death knight status and Endless Hunger eventually led him to where most of his thoughts ended up lately.

Briefly, momentarily, did Ryndan fantasise stating Cersae as his spouse on his Will. In which she was a soldier's widow, receiving the worst letter anyone could, and his small gains going to her. The image fled as soon as it was imagined, for he disliked the idea immediately. Even if it were not Cersae, the thought was equally as bad were it any spouse.

Though the thought of her being his wife and him her husband had an appeal.

The illusion was short-lived as he made his way back to his private dorm. Being Lieutenant-Commander had its perks and this is one he didn't want to argue. He contemplated the idea further, of marriage, as he entered, undressed and routinely washed for bed.

He cared for her, of course. He wouldn't have asked her what he did only a few nights ago if he did not. The idea that she reciprocated even a quarter of his feelings was astounding even still and a small giddiness formed in the quirk of his mouth. She amazed and astounded him. There was no denying his fascination with her- from when it had ranged from the morbid at Light's Hope Chapel to the wondrous, accusing (and temporary) hatred of her at Westguard, to the affectionate concern that grew with each page he turned on her story. He noted most things about her. Starting with her eyes.

They remained silver, even after he dispensed the rare Orb of the Sin'Dorei onto her bed that night. It seemed the illusion she wore only fell when he held it- the orb, but now that he was canny to the ruse, he saw both the illusion and the woman beneath it. It wasn't so much a transposed image, as it was just…two at the same time. He found it hard to describe, but Ryndan remained as equally enamoured whichever face he could see. But then he started to notice other things.

It started out as nothing, a light 'cuh' under her breath, her shoulders bunching slightly as it passed. And then it was sneezing- just a couple here and there, nothing out of the ordinary. It was comical, cute even. She purchased a kerchief for her sniffing. It was white, plain, unembroidered. Lynara had said it was common to put one's initials on it. She started at realising she couldn't recall her last name- her book offered no clue either. Only for a moment had the priest look shocked, covering it swiftly with a kind smile and an 'it'll come back to you'. She had nodded and coughed lightly again.

The sneezing highlighted her sickness. It wasn't much, just a common cold. They weren't exactly unusual, he himself suffering a blocked nose and sore throat. But he was concerned that it was a symptom for something more. Her mortality decreasing as it broke further and further away from Arthas' grip, for instance. Her eyes, silver and metallic, were the only physical indication he could perceive that she was still tethered. And even they seemed to darken with each visit. A voice in the back of his mind whispered they were supposed to be brown, and he attempted not to seek any trace of the colour out whenever he looked upon her.

He tried not to worry, not to dwell. They were tentatively together and the man just wanted to enjoy that blessed time. Even more so now since he was field-bound once more in one week until it became a tale of letter-swapping and waiting. He'd seen countless men and women experience the pain of separation, clinging to notes and handwritten eulogies as a tether to their sanity, sometimes. Hell, he was the same with letters from his sisters and parents. This would be the first time he would be seeing it from a lover's point of view, however, and the thought didn't rest as well with him as he liked.

So when she coughed, and choked, he smiled tightly, offering water and patting her back, comforting words of nothing passing his mouth in an effort not to betray his true concern for her. It was a daily strain as the cough became just a little bit worse.

They stayed inside on his rare free time, usually in her undisturbed chamber at the hospital, enjoying the fire and something warm. She was quiet at first, this new thing between them tender and unsure. It didn't take long to bring her out of her shell. With questions and distracting prompts she blossomed before him, exclaiming of new alchemical advances in her three-year absence, marvelling at the new uses for potion-crafting and elixir-making. Invisibility, improved healing, and temporary strength – it all fascinated her and she fascinated him.

Watching someone you are close with light their eyes up with passion is a dear thing. Passion and enthusiasm are infectious, he found. Her eyes lit up and her hands would gesture deliberately. They opened up wide and pinched in very close, flexing and pointing, playing and thinking with each of her statements and questions. He followed her hands, those small, pale things. He watched her eyes, more silver than he'd ever seen his sword- and sharper to boot. He had little clue to what she was talking about, even when realising how excited she was getting and attempted to slow her definitions for him. Still, he smiled and encouraged her, uncomprehending how she ever saw him as equally as interesting. It was one of the most intriguing things he'd seen in her entire development from that day in the Plaguelands.

The motionless doll, the unfeeling soldier-of-Arthas was now professing her love for all things alchemical and he couldn't believe the two were the same person.

He occasionally argued that they weren't, different circumstances enforcing different people in the same body, but he tucked these thoughts away with everything else he wished to ignore in favour of watching her.

They had spoken of many things in the last few days. Why he joined the Crusade (he wanted to be a paladin like his eldest sister- a high-ranking officer in the Blood Guard of Silvermoon), what the Crusade meant to him (a home, a family to fight for what's right, to aid people in the world,) and what he wanted to do in the future (an answer he couldn't provide, for he hadn't given too much thought to the matter at the tender age of twenty-eight). He spoke fondly of his sisters, the letters he had received in Dalaran (only one set so far, the travelling time for mail between continents a bit on the long side) and how he was excited at being an uncle soon. They expected the baby in late spring, early summer and privately did he share the wish for the war to be over by then so he could go home.

And perhaps introduce her to the family, but that was a long way off yet. For now he wanted whatever it was they had between them, to be between them. Early stages and baby-steps and with both of them in the middle of a war, he didn't want to rush for the sake of rushing, of feeling like living in the heat of the moment, for that would be unfair to them both. He refused to admit that that was exactly how he had felt when asking her to take care of him and promptly ignored that inner voice whenever it brought the topic up. Which is why the thought of marriage was temporary at best, and simply a fantasy while he enjoyed his time now.

For now, he thought finally tucking into bed, he just wanted to live in the moment. In that glorious, exciting, I'm-looking-over-a-cliff-edge moment with her without knowing when the plunge would be coming and if it would be exhilarating, or terrifying.

* * *

As his luck would (or wouldn't) have it, it seems he was first to intercept Terowin. He hadn't seen much of the elf in his time in Dalaran as the paladin had either been in hospital, with Cersae, in the barracks working or at flight-training. There was little difference, only that he still walked around with that hulking, gruesome axe of his in broad daylight.

Ryndan relayed Ashwood's commands to him on a frosty, bitter morning before dawn and he had received an equally frosty, bitter laugh in return.

"So, the old windbag knew about that, huh? Here I was hoping you had forgotten about me. I was fair enjoying myself, Firesworn, I do so hate for you to ruin my after-school activities."

Ryndan ignored the jibe.

"You'll have plenty to be slaughtering at Angrathar, so wrap it up here without getting into trouble. Do you think you can manage that?"

"Most certainly I can. It's been rather gratifying but even when playing for money it feels a little too safe, sometimes. Referees- who needs them on the battlefield?" he drawled. Ryndan had forgotten just how sickly pale the death knight looked. His skin was the sallowed green of an unhealthy or pestilence-infected crop. His long hair, free and uninhibited in the morning winds, was dark, ink-bottle green to match his unholy aura. He didn't feel it as keenly as Lynara had once described to him, but there was something uncomfortable about being in his presence, and Ryndan wasn't one to be intimidated or put-off easily. "Tell me, how is my Little Sister doing in all of this? Hasn't she felt the need to come and cut down a few, just for fun? Oh, did she even  _survive_?"

"Cersae has survived just fine, and no, she has felt no bloodthirsty  _need to cut people down for fun._ " Truth be told, Ryndan was very impressed with how little he felt like reacting to Terowin's rude mannerisms. His respite in the city must have done wonders for his temperament, though he figured that would change soon after going back to the field.

"'Cersae' is it now? My, my, you kids haven't been up to anything that I wouldn't do, have you?"

"Darksworn, keep your commentary to yourself. Act on your orders and prepare to leave for next week." He turned to leave, the snowfall starting ever-so-gently again.

"You know," the layered voice called across the growing distance, "I witnessed her first kill in Acherus." Ryndan didn't want to know, it wasn't her anymore. She was past that. His pace quickened slightly as he walked through the barracks' main courtyard. "She was spectacular, really toyed with her captive." The voice was startlingly close and the Lieutenant-Commander found that he was being followed. So, he wanted to play it like that did he?

"Do tell, Darksworn. Spill your dirty story with glee so you can hurry and leave me in peace to my duties." He was flashed a sick, twisted grin in return.

"Oh, don't be such a pill, Firesworn. It's an interesting story, truly. You see, shortly after I arrived at Acherus – straight transfer from the main Citadel branch in Icecrown, you see- she was put to killing her first initiate. Now, we do a lot of training- spellwork, swordcraft, rune-brandishing…that sort of thing. Oh yes," he said at Ryndan's surprised look, "we're very thorough in our education. There's propaganda, will-breaking, brain-washing of course, it's a very intricate, intense system to wheedle out the weak and unworthy. And it's the unworthy that pay the price for failing.

"Our soldiers are the best of the best. If you cannot handle the programme, you cannot handle the Lich King's service and that's that. We are already a goodly number even after what you zealots cut down in the Plaguelands, but could you imagine the ranks if the requirements were even just a little bit more lax? You would be overcome, swarmed over with us. You are so lucky that the Master is very specific in what He wants in His army."

"Why are you telling me this, Darksworn? Is there a purpose? A sad story as to why you ended up joining?"

"Me? Oh no, I joined for power, pure and simple. I revel in it you see, I  _like_  to be obeyed." The rictus grin tore on his face once more. "But this isn't about me, this is about you learning exactly what it is your lady went through to become what she became…or have you forgotten her status as being The Hacker?"

For once, Ryndan had the one up. He briefly toyed with the thought of revealing her true intentions, but figured it would annoy Terowin more if he didn't tell him. "Oh, we've spoken about that. She's explained her reasoning and actions in detail and I'm rather fine with it." Ryndan was rewarded with the most miniscule of twitches, but it was enough to know that he won that particular round.

"Very good, wouldn't want that between you, would we now?" The paladin wasn't entirely sure what he was implying, but played it close to the chest as he kept his face practicably neutral. "But yes, shortly after my overseeing of the Acherus branch did I witness her. She stood out because of that white hair of hers- very unusual for a novice knight not to have specialised by that stage in the training. Razuvious wasn't concerned, he confided to me that her skills were unparalleled without a magic school chosen yet. So when it was her turn to activate and sate her Endless Hunger, the final piece in the puzzle that marked you as loyal to Arthas and his command alone, needless to say we were very interested."

Terowin moved in close to Ryndan's personal space, the paladin deliberately not moving out of the way to save him the satisfaction.

"She  _toyed_  with her subject, Firesworn. A failure novice who wasn't fully undead yet, but he was alive enough to know fear and terror, and  _oh_  what terror she incited. She  _breathed_  it, Firesworn, she circled that derelict like a huntress around her prey. He was too scared to move. He couldn't even pick up his weapon for watching her sidestep around him, runeblade in hand. It was a thing of beauty, watching her in that central pit, the other prisoners chained to the walls, watching with baited breath as she had passed over them in favour of another. And she  _loved_  it." Each 's' he spoke carried through like a hiss, his voice dropping to such a dramatic whisper that Ryndan had stopped breathing.

"He felt the terror of being forced to the edge, bound and blindfolded, unable to see when the drop would come as she edged him ever closer until he panicked. She had done  _nothing_  yet, but with her mere overbearing, powerful presence, this pissant nearly wet himself with fear. Oh she was  _glorious_. Untouched and he was already a wounded animal, cornered. He threw an axe at her in his frenzy. An  _axe_. He was shaking so badly that it landed nowhere near her, but it was enough provocation. And oh she struck hard. She slew him, beat him bloody senseless until dead and  _she didn't stop_. There was nothing left but a gruesome pile on the floor, muscle eviscerated, brain splatter all round, bones and teeth shattered, and the splinters  _everywhere_. The bloodstains were like no other that pit had seen. Most knights were swift, playing with their subjects but never for that long, never to revel in the dread and intimidation as she did. She was the most violent, crazed and professional knight in the arsenal at the time and  _that's_  why she stood out. Because she was  _good_  at it." Terowin was so close to Ryndan that all he could see was the blue-coloured eyes of a madman.

"So just you remember that when you make eyes at her, Firesworn. You remember her murders, her Hacker streak, and her bloodlust. You might think she's beyond that now, but there's no laying to rest that kind of craze, that kind of thirst. You're a soldier, you should know  _exactly_  how that feels."

* * *

The blood was pounding thick and fast in his ears, his own hard breath barely overheard as Bart looked for a way out. He had screwed up, he had screwed up  _horrendously_. The mantra reverberated in his head as hard as his heart was crashing against his ribs. The load he was meant to deliver was heavier than lead in his bloodied hands and Bart was beyond panic, he was frantic and downright fearful. A wrong turn into a dead end forced him to stop. He tried to catch his breath while flailing to grasp any semblance of clear-thought.

It shouldn't have happened. He knew the job was difficult, the most difficult to date, but it wasn't supposed to have ended this way. He'd killed before in defence when left with little option, but this wasn't just any toady or pondscum that had gotten in his way. No. He had been a boy, barely out of his teenage years with his life ahead of him.

_He could still hear the screams._

His hands cupped his ears as he tried to drown them out, the hilt of the blade cold against his head. Stark realisation made him throw the  _thing_  far from him in disgust and he watched it like it was a rabid animal  _watching him_  with pinprick eyes and bared teeth.

The hilt-high blood wasn't washing off quick enough in this rain.

The wall scratched his back as he slumped down, opposite the knife. The tiny scrapes and points of pain were just enough to catch his breath and let him  _think_.

_Shit. Oh Elune, what have I done. Shit._

His hands cupped around his mouth, covering much of his face in an effort to silence his breaths in the rain, in an effort to block his assignment out of sight from where it lay.

Bart was in a word, fucked.

Get the knife, return it. That was the gist of the operation. Stealth into the Sunreaver sanctum, use the from-the-inside intel to track down this object, retrieve it, return to Solidad. It sounded so simple, so easy to execute.

_So where had it gone wrong?_

Getting in had been tough, especially late at night. The rain masked his footfalls and unintended grunts as he scaled the rooftops, but it made it slippery and nigh on doubled his entry and exit times. He recalled ruminating on why the on-the-inside-intel simply didn't retrieve the item, since they were already privy to its whereabouts and in close quarters of it. He recalled fuming at the unnecessary involvement of Bart in all of this since the on-the-inside-intel could have  _had this job done by now_  as he lay eyes on his quarry. He remembered swearing under his breath and cursing whoever was too comfortable playing double agent to be a dogsbody in all of this, then as he finally left the sanctum in the wee hours, blade in his jerkin, as he climbed and slinked his way over the first two roofs, as his footing caught on one wet, loose slate, as he tumbled hard and fast off of the first-floor top did he have the epiphany as to why Bart was the one doing this and not the on-the-inside-intel.

It was in case they got caught.

He didn't know if the police patrol was too late or too early from their designated schedule, but he could tell they were green as they came. They only stared at each other for a moment before hell broke loose. The boy shouldn't have lunged for him. Kirin Tor tabard or no, the kid should have just ran instead of coming at him in some twisted sense of military duty. The scuffle was brief and momentary. The pain he was suffering at the brutal landing from the roof made him sluggish and slow. The boy managed to  _disarm_  Bart, knocking his handaxe from his grip, turning the fight in his favour. The partner – a shapeless figure hanging at the edge of the alleyway in Bart's peripheral vision- was caught between going for help and joining the fray. The night elf was made desperate.

His twisted ankle protesting, Bart swept his leg to catch the newbie off-guard. A quick, estimated chop at the boy's wrist failed at disarming and Bart was left with one option. He wielded the blade that he had been sent to secure, unable to get to his usual weapon laying feet away. The rain was getting heavier, gales picking up and Bart's obstacle either grew a pair or grew arrogant. Fighting with a skilled opponent was thrilling, it was calculating and required thought. Fighting with a novice, however, especially when they thought high enough of their skill level to be wild and confident in their sloppy work, meant Bart had to fight on reflex. They wrestled and scuffled, Bart refraining from half of his usual techniques to save permanent injury, he  _really_  didn't want to harm the lad, just enough to allow him to get away. But of course it didn't work out like he planned.

He didn't know who screwed up first, him or the boy, but Bart felt the blood drain from his face when the blade he held pierced armour and flesh.

And it kept sinking.

It was magnetic, the blade seemed to pull itself into the body's ribs, spreading them apart, gaining more ground the deeper it went. Bart was an assassin of unsavoury people from days long past, he knew just where to strike and for how far if he aimed to kill.

_But killing the boy wasn't on the agenda._

And yet here the blade was, hilt-deep in his thorax.

Bartheleus was well-versed in anatomy. It varied rarely from most humanoid races, the skeleton and skin changing slightly from species to species, but most of the same vital organs remaining common through them. This mean that Bart knew what happened. What was happening as the blade slid further in. It pierced the right lung. It punctured, he  _felt_  it, and it had burst.

He should have been spluttering blood. The boy should have been trembling in realisation. He should have slid to the ground as he drowned from the inside out, hands attempting to grasp something, clutch at  _anything_ until he stopped twitching in suffocation.

**_So why was he rigid and screaming?_ **

Bart reeled in horror as the boy's back arced unnaturally, arms stiffening outwards, eyes rolling into the back of his head.

It was a sanguine eruption from his disjointed jaw, like some nightmarish water font, bubbling forward in a display so grotesque that Bart retched in his mouth.

He doesn't know how long it took the boy to die, to finally collapse in a violently jerking heap in the back of an alleyway, the rain washing away his blood. What Bart did know was that he had to run.

And so he did.

The blade came with him of its own volition. He most certainly couldn't recall pulling the damned thing from the jittering corpse at any point, so it followed him. And now it lay opposite where he had thrown it, in an alley not unlike the one they had vacated. Not unlike the one where he had just-

No. No this was no good. He needed to move.

The blade watched him silently as Bart stood.

It was too dangerous. Too deadly to leave. This blade was unholy, it was cursed.

Rumours had been spreading in the underworld of artefacts brought back,  _stolen_ , from Naxxramas. Items claiming to be so had popped up on the Black Market, the tag of 'From the Dread Necropolis' slapped on to boost the price of the 'so-called rarity' of these trinkets. Whether or not these things did indeed hail from the place those morons had only just heard about, was questionable. It had disgusted Bart, those fools who were riding on the label for sales. It had angered him that they had no respect for those who had attended the place, who had left broken and scarred. But he hadn't said anything.

To give away his presence at the raid was to give away his identity, and he couldn't do that.

The blade was still watching him, he could feel it. There was an aura, a malevolent eeriness about the knife that hailed it as a bad omen. The blade was long, the length of his forearm, and slender. It wasn't quite needle point, but it was designed for puncture, not slicing or cutting. In the dim lit filtering in from the empty street, he could see the blade was quartz black- the blood shining on it like some sick medallion. Were Bart not in such a panic, he would admire the crooked quality of the blade. He was sorely reminded of ritual daggers he had seen in storybooks and grisly tomes that he wished he'd never read.

This  _was_  definitely from Naxxramas.

He scooped up the blade, wrapping it in a leather pouch before kneeling to clean his face and hands in a filling puddle. The water was cold and dirty as he peered at his reflection but he-

His face. It was visible. The cowl –  _where was it?!_

The boy, he'd torn it off mid-fight.

The partner. He'd let them live.

His face was known.

_Shit._

He was too stunned to be panicked and by the time he'd reached his inn- scaling the outside wall softly to avoid forced entry- he already had a half formed plan. His bag required little to pack, only taking the necessities. He made sure to roll one of the thicker blankets from his bet and tie it to the outfit. Spare clothes. What few personal items he possessed – the textile flower, was carefully placed as to not ruin it- did he swiftly ready for flight. He was sorting the last of his itinerary when she slunk in. Unable to have such a graceful,  _quiet_  entrance through his jarred window, he had he pressed up against the wall, forearm to throat before she could get her footing.

"Why are you here, Luciya? You should know better-"

"Oh calm the dramatics will you?" her hair plastered her face and head, still dripping a puddle onto the wooden floor. "I know you're in trouble- one of my agents got to me as soon as the boy hit the ground."

Bart blinked, searching her amber eyes. He had no idea of her intentions. Everything he had registered, logged away the past few years of her was shaky and uncertain, her ability to lie and manipulate unlike any other he knew. He didn't loosen his forearm. Her arms were held aloft, empty, clear of foul play, or so she liked him to think.

"Would you just let me go? I have come here to  _help_."

"Why would you help me? What was it? You've finished your use for me?" She actually rolled her eyes at him.

"You idiot. Did you forget the part where I said I was also keeping you alive? You've just committed murder in not-so-broad-daylight and instead of taking off to the sewers, you procrastinated and  _ran._ Solidad is not going to take kindly to that for sure as the sun is going to rise in an hour, he probably already knows you've turned tail and  _stolen his goods._ "

He didn't bother asking how she knew Solidad, or where he lived, it didn't matter at this point. But she was right. Teenager or not, Solidad had a deadly quality behind those stark green eyes that he couldn't risk- he was in charge of that particular shopfront for good reason. Rumours about what happened to those who displeased him were widespread and whispered about in dark corners.

Which is why Bart had stupidly returned to his inn to gather his sentimental belongings.

Truth be told, he had been waiting for this, an opportunity to leave this business, this despicable service. What started out as self-punishment for…for  _that_ , had turned into a self-made trap that he couldn't escape. But this was his chance. It was risky, stupidly and fatally so, but he was going to take it. He wanted to turn a new leaf, make a new start, and this was the perilous way he was going to do it. The way Bart saw it he could cut off his own leg to escape the trap, or die trying. Here Luciya offered the rusty blade to dismember himself, all he had to do was to take it.

And he was out of options. And time.

She could have killed him by now, they both knew that. She didn't need her hands up like that if she meant to mislead him. He was dispensable, unnecessary now, so she had no reason he could discern to dispose of him.

He removed the arm.

"Thank you," she breathed, dramatically rubbing her neck. "Now, you have two choices- run, and attempt to survive on your own, or follow my directions." Cautiously and deliberately, without fast movement, she withdrew a folded letter from the collar of her dark leather jerkin. "This is a letter of recommendation. If you teleport directly below us into Crystalsong, you have a chance at survival." She paused, waiting for his reaction. He gave none. "I need you to follow the north Cliffside. Travel for about two days- on foot- heading east. Follow it until you reach a crevice. There's a long path there. Do you remember when I left Wintergarde at the request of Fordring?"

He nodded once, the thought of their parting nearly as bitter as the blood he tasted biting on his own tongue.

"Good. Well, he asked me to go to this crevice. I was part of a team of engineers and together we managed to make a blasting hole- a new entrance- into Icecrown." Surprise didn't even cover Bart's reaction. "I know, right? It's supposed to be secret. Anyway, the Argent Crusade is building a forward vanguard there, a new base for them."

_"Why?"_

"In case the assault on the Wrathgate fails. They're due to hit it next week, I believe. Don't look at me like that, of course I'm up to date on the movements of the Crusade. I was before they even left the Eastern Kingdoms. Anyway, take this letter," she proffered it to him. "Take this to the Foreman there, he'll let you stay as it's in my name. Work as a labourer, medic, whatever, but just go there- you'll be safe."

He almost asked 'why' again. Why was she helping? Why was she so concerned? Why were agents following him?

But he didn't.

The paper was a little damp, Luciya clearly having hurried from wherever she was with it to get it to him and he unashamedly unfolded it to read before her. No cipher that he could determine, no hidden messages. Any invisible ink would have run in the rainwater. It was unscented. Their eyes met and some mutual feeling passed between them- a debt cleared, a sin paid for. She said nothing more and left.

His feet wanted to take him to the church Lynara had taken him to once. He wanted to see the man once before he went. He needed to talk to him, to say just how sorry he was for what he did, to thank him for his – for him. He wanted one last look at the man, but he knew that right now, he didn't deserve even that, not yet- if ever. He didn't linger too long on the decision.

He couldn't endanger the man, he wouldn't. There was an itch in his heart when he thought of the priest, but he made a point not to scratch it. He was too afraid of what might leak out if he did.

Bart left Dalaran before first light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so this story has started gaining traction and I've only just been made aware of it. Thank you to those who have left kudos and bookmarked the story, Ao3 didn't inform me that people were actually *reading* this. I tend to forget I've actually posted it on here (since I update on ff.net) so here's the most up-to-date chapter :) Wrathgate coming up soon and back into main-storyline-territory. Glad you're still with me ^_^
> 
> Loremaster_Loryn xx


	58. Dear Diary

The waiting was the worst part, I decided. The not knowing. The anxiety for news. What was happening? Was it over? Had we won? At what cost? What about the-

No. Thinking did me no good. How did families do this? How did they function every day not knowing what became of their close ones?

The Wrathgate. They were down there now. Ryndan with them.

I won't be on the front lines, he told me. I don't know if he was trying to comfort me or himself.

It didn't mean I didn't worry.

Truthfully I yearned to be there. Not to slaughter like I may have done a few weeks ago, just to know. To sate this thirst for information that was currently driving me mad enough to pace a hole in the rug. My hands itched and my shoulders ached with tension. This was stupid. So stupid. I felt like a simpering heroine in one of Luciya's bloody books that she felt it funny to read aloud and annotate with her own lewd insight.

My alchemy books didn't give me any distraction. I owned two and I'd already absorbed them back to front. Luciya was nowhere to be found, Lynara had made his way to the Wrathgate to be of aid and I hadn't seen Bart in two weeks so I'd no idea where he was. I wasn't close enough with Jerewyn to intrude on her company and I couldn't remember the way to the bookshop Ryndan took me to before Winter's Veil on my own (I already tried –I got lost.  _Twice_ ).

That left me free to do naught but worry.

Flumping onto the bed, I gazed at the ceiling, hoping for divine intervention to magic my fear away.

No such luck it seemed.

After half an hour of this, I sat up, unable to sleep, to nap or anything. My hair, still damp from the bath I sought to distract myself with was now tangled and I dedicated a little while to combing out the tots and knots with much cussing in the meanwhile. It was shoulder length, not long enough to tie it back or do anything with which left me frustrated. So I emptied my bag for a want of nothing better to do.

The biggest thing to land on my bed after upturning the satchel was the journal. My leather-bound book which as of late, I'd taken to using.

I'd found it therapeutic in a way, and it helped sort my thoughts out so perhaps it could work now…?

Shoving my affects to the bottom end of the bed, I lay back down on it and opened it up.

The first entry was dated a week ago.

* * *

One week after Winter's Veil

I was suffocating.

I felt trapped and safe and comfortable and scared and happy and anxious and unsure.

All at once.

Being in Dalaran, a city in the sky, I was limited by means of escape. I couldn't get out easy. Walking through the gates like normal capitals wasn't on the cards here. I could descend gracefully, if I wanted to leave, by means of flight or simply take the plunge and walk off the edge.

Or I could remain here. Contained.

The perks of being in this floating metropolis meant we were free from attack, out of harm's way, shielded by cloud and defended by the permanent ascension. Being so high up made me physically nauseous but it was something I forgot over time. It was a fair trade off, safety for freedom.

And this is how I felt with Ryndan.

He gave me peace of mind, and made me edgy at the same time. I could let my guard down in his presence and put more intimate defences up because I didn't know what to expect. I could trust him with my life and fear that I couldn't do the same for him.

Overall, it was very exhausting, this new dynamic between us and we'd barely shifted from the edge we had teetered on only a few nights ago at Winter's Veil.

I felt small, small and insignificant in his big world. And yet the way he glances at me, with a tenderness I equally knew and didn't know he was capable of, he made me feel to be one of the best things to happen to him and all I could think was;  _what terrors must have befallen this man if I'm one of the better aspects._

Accusations like  _are you really good enough for him_  and  _what ill will befall him at your behest?_ bounce around my skull as I try to understand what we are now, and where we're headed.

If this is really a good thing.

They were lingering, these thoughts. Not in the way a bad smell follows you, no. More like a shadow. They clung to me like a shadow, always at the edge of my eye, unable to be clutched when I reached for it and appearing strongest when in the presence of something bright. And of course, Ryndan was that something bright.

He wasn't any different to our first meeting all those months ago;  _how much has changed._

How much  _I_  have changed.

The fear I felt upon awakening, the confusion, it's given way to anger and senses of retribution. Terror and horror at what I had become has dissolved into acceptance and purpose. And now I'm healing, I'm getting better- not just mentally, but physically also.

Landing on Northrend I had been so weak, felt so ill, but now I feel stronger in ways that I never did when wielding a blade with skill. I was still haunted by nameless faces of those I slew in the past, but I think that amends are slowly being made, especially with my work on altering The New Plague. Perhaps they will lay to rest one day, and I've been given a second chance to make up for that which I could not control.

And maybe Ryndan is my guide, my helping hand to lead me to salvation.

His peers held him like no other, this I witnessed on a now-rare outing with him. His work was starting to eat most of his time and energy, which was great as it gave me the space to breathe while adapting to whatever our newfound relationship was. He had smiled and laughed and relaxed during his time with me and after a while, it bled into my mood and I found my anxiety leaving. We were en route to a toy shop (he wanted to get something for his soon-to-be-born niece or nephew before he left Dalaran) when two boys intercepted him.

Ryndan was in 'civilian clothes', as he called them. Dark leather breeches with accompanying riding boots, a white shirt and thigh-length, sleeveless tunic that complemented him rather well. His frame, I noticed (I'm doing a lot more noticing now) had broadened from the shell of a man who fell asleep in my bedroom chair a few weeks ago. I hadn't realised at the time, but he had lost a lot of weight since the Plaguelands. I guess rations would do that do you.

The two boys must have recognised him after knowing him for so long and familiarly did they bound into his space requesting permission to visit the tavern on their way back from advanced flight-training. Ryndan excused himself from me quietly to deal with them all the while smiling fondly and asking them of their progress. They also wore civilian clothes, similar to Ryndan's, the colouring a little odd on the draenei, but suiting the other.

The other who I had to stop and gape at.

He had a stocky build and eyes so brown that I was simultaneously envious and awed. He had pale skin, brought into sharp relief by the darkness of his eyebrows and abundance of hair but none of this was what I was gaping at.

I thought it was Edmund.

The shape of the eyes, the quirk of the mouth. Edmund had near-black, shaggy hair, a strong jaw and sharp eyes and here was someone with such strikingly similar features that I thought it was him.

Until Ryndan introduced them as Corporal Danila of the Exodar and Sergeant Edrikson of Stormwind.

All I could stutter were hellos and nice-to-meet-yous. They too were polite, m'ladying me – quite possibly since I was on the arm of their commanding officer and with my now-free hair I didn't look anything like the death knight they associated with the Argent Crusade from a while back. The formalities and manners to my person made me feel so dreadfully uncomfortable. I was no noblewoman or woman of high-standing, military, socially or otherwise.

 _And I didn't like_ him _calling me it. Not when he looked like the man I still wanted to find._

Vague memories stirred of seeing them about Valgarde but I'd never been up close and personal with many of the Crusade lot if I could help it. With permission did they scurry off and with a cautious questioning from Ryndan did I divulge exactly what had spooked me because  _of course_  he picked up on that.

I didn't really like the flutter in his eyes when I mentioned Edmund.

Still hand-on-arm (a small courtesy afforded from a gentleman that I think I could get used to, I liked the idea of support and general closeness without feeling awkward about it) we walked to the toy store. I decided to clear the air.

"I still want to find Edmund," I had told him meekly.

A weight settled in my stomach that was most certainly not welcome there and I told it to piss off so I could do this without added pressure thank you very much.

Naturally, it stubbornly stayed throughout the whole ordeal.

I wasn't versed on the whole discussing-other-men-with-the-man-you're-kind-of-involved-with-now so it was blurted in typical Cersae fashion. I felt the tension in his arm as I said it. His tone was still polite and reined in, bless.

"I figured as much, I wasn't sure how to brooch the subject," he said. That weight from earlier? It got heavier. My entire stance slouched under the strain of carrying it.

I didn't like it. I didn't like the tightness around his smile and eyes or the nerves telling me to bottle it.

"I- I don't love him, if that is your concern." I took a wild stab in the dark. If there was one thing Luciya's damnable 'romance' novels were at, it was drama and triangles and stupid stuff like that. While it didn't make the topic at hand any easier to discuss, it did provide some insight into what might be going on in his head. "I mean I do, I want to find him, but it's not- there was nothing between us. I just owe it to him, you know? Th-that's why I came here...after...all…"

I stammered, like the suave moron that I am, and I actually felt my face heat up in embarrassment. In my defence, I think it worked to my benefit when he softened ever so marginally either at my words, the way I delivered them or both.

"Thank you, I appreciate you saying. Truth be told, this Edmund was the only hurdle preventing me from asking you earlier. With hindsight, I'm glad I waited until you were ready too," he smiled. "Anything you need, an ear to listen to you or any help I can offer you in your search, I will give it without question. This is my promise to you."

And that blasted weight? It lifted and pissed right off. Our afternoon was a lot more pleasant from then on in.

We reached the toy shop. Immediately I was fascinated with the train set and wind-up toys denied to me as a child. A boy about seven, and a girl a little younger, played with is like children should and the laughter mixed in the air with the puff-puff and choo-choo of the toy. Was I ever conscious of Ryndan's eyes following me? Yes. Did it make me nervous and hesitant about what I was doing? No, no it didn't. Now I secretly liked it, and tried to draw his attentions to what it was that fascinated me so. I'd never heard of bonding over dolls and toys in any of Luciya's lewd books but I think it worked better than any clichéd kiss in the rain.

Soon, after a lot of shelf-browsing and cog-winding and finger-prodding did we settle to find a toy for the up and coming Baby Firesworn-Dawnstrider.

After much deliberation, picked out a hand-stitched teddy bear. It was golden-brown, the softest fur I've ever felt with white shining buttons stitched up its front. The glassy eyes shone black and happy back, a small smile present on its face. Ryndan was very happy with the purchase (now complete with bow and tag) and couldn't wait to send it on forth to his new family member.

We named it Terowin.

* * *

Nine days after Winter's Veil.

I met with Mort today, the first time since Lynara's revelation about his ailing condition.

Truth be told, I had noticed it myself. Not spiritually like Lynara had, but it was physically obvious at our last meeting. The peeling skin, pockmarked with scabs and torn with holes, thinly stretched over sinew that was no longer there. Now his jaw had given up entirely, unhinging and hanging slack.

His clothes were a little more tidy, not so dirty, but still ragged and so- so  _un-Mort_  that it hurt to see him- though not more than the gut-wrenching betrayal I was still painfully reminded of at mere mention of the man.

How did we ever reach this point? Mort the untidy, injured-looking one and now me, feeling older than my years and having him at my mercy. It used to be so different.

The meeting was arranged. He'd sent word through Ryndan that he wanted to meet me again and begrudgingly I agreed. I didn't know if Ryndan had spoken to Mort of my possibly wavering anger or not, either way, I was still surprised to receive the message. I declined the company that Ryndan offered, knowing that he had a fair busy schedule but I appreciated it anyway, and it was left at that.

I met Mort at Midday.

He was sorry-looking and I don't know if it was intentional or accidental because of his pathetic state anyway, but I couldn't keep a stone-face against that. I was still pretty pissed at him. In his right-mind or not, it was that face and that body that threw me to the proverbial dogs at Naxxramas and a lot before that and things like that were hard to shake off. I kept cool and distant as he stood up to greet me. Situated at the Legerdemain Lounge once more, I found a party of two awaiting me at our table.

The other gentleman was wholly-made and familiar seeming. He was fancily dressed and heavily doused in perfume. Rowan Helfgot (of the Royal Stormwind Society of Science) was his name and after a short introduction did I recognise him from around Port Valgarde. Curiously I peered between the two men wondering what their connection was.

Mort soon divulged. Rowan Helfgot was nothing shy of an R.A.S operative and spy situated in Valgarde to pass on information. The 'Royal Stormwind Society of Science' was a ruse, a false, overly extravagant one that he could throw around as if it held weight and people would just let him get on with it. So it had been for years. Upon closer inspection I noticed the underlying smell, a torrid decay that the perfume mostly masked. In the lounge, amongst patrons with stew and steak and bread the odour was hard to pinpoint, but eventually I had it tracked to this man and not Mort. That must be what the perfume was for, I reckoned.

Mort told me he had information from Helfgot, something he had tasked this man with some time ago. The agent handed me a sealed envelope, stamped in wax adorned with the seal of Lordaeron. 'Official business', it was labelled.

"I don't know the details in there, the unbroken wax is testament to that and I thought you'd like to receive this straight from the source. I know things haven't been well with us lately, Little Girl, even if I cannot recall why, but this should help make amends, if you'll let me." I visibly bristled at 'Little Girl', for a child I most certainly wasn't anymore. Perhaps pettily was I satisfied at his startled flinch.

I broke the seal and unfolded the parchment curiously.

It was a record. Of Edmund's departure from Dalaran.

It was dated several months ago before I had arrived on Northrend.

**Destination- Bouldercrag's Refuge, Storm Peaks.**

Accompanied by several others, a party, by the looks of a list of names beside his.

I stared at the men wordlessly.

"How-"

"Helfgot has been on this task for some time. He's tracked Edmund's footsteps since he left me over a year ago to search for you. I wasn't kidding when I said I knew where he was- though technically, I didn't know precisely, but I knew I could know." The slackjaw made it a little difficult to hear him out but the words came through clear as crystal. Mort genuinely wanted to give me his whereabouts. I still said nothing, shock at anything at seeing Edmund's name- his whole name.

"Edmund Walden?" I asked him.

"Ah, yes. When he joined the Society a few years ago, I lent him my own name to give him a foot in the door; a distant relative that was staying down in Silverpine, I told them. He kept using it since which made it easier to track him.

"His journey took him all over. The Plaguelands until Naxxramas moved, back to the Undercity with me. Then he caught wind of Naxxramas moving north and decided to go. He made his way to Stormwind where a ship made berth at Valgarde. He spent several weeks there (with Luciya) before arriving here in Dalaran on foot. He was here for a few more weeks before finally leaving to Bouldercrag's Refuge.

I was so close.

Helfgot made his leave to go but not before I thanked him quietly for his hard work. Mort looked as anxious as I felt. This was an amazing thing I held in my hands and now, only a few months precisely behind him, tracking Edmund's lead from here shouldn't be a problem. But it didn't make up for wrongs done to me. I took in the man before me. Slouched, dejected and finished. He used to stand so tall, so proud and sure. The tables certainly turned. I didn't look up to him any longer.

"This doesn't blanket everything you did," I told him. "I can't say this makes up for it because truthfully, you owed me this long before now." I didn't focus on the sadness in his eyes. "You've ruined my life, Mort. I've done things I would never have done if you didn't try to trap Edmund in the first place." I kept my gaze steady and voice unbroken. "There are people dead by my hand, and maybe they wouldn't have survived either way, but their blood wouldn't be on me, but it is. Because of you." I felt myself gaining traction. "We can't be what we were before, Mort. We were friends at one point, even if you schemed and plotted for the RAS. I could have forgiven that, but not what you did to me. Not what you did to Edmund. Now he's lost and I'm going to find him and this," I held up the paper, "This is the last thing between us. I want us to part ways. I've served in your war, played a part on both sides and I'm done.  _We're_  done, Baron Walden. Don't look for me again."

All he could say was "as you wish".

It felt final, that chapter closing. I didn't have the energy to hate him, much like I told Ryndan once with regards to Arthas. I have every right and cause to despise their existence but truthfully, I just didn't see what good it would do me. If I ever saw Mort again, it'd be in passing and nothing more. There was too much history, too much wrong between us and it was too big a boulder in my path to move. Instead, I walked away from it never to look back, seeing some other way to move forward and I decided it was without Mort.

If he was telling the truth, he never saw the location that Edmund went to. I suppose that was a display of trust for me, him admitting that but I had no clue if he was honest. Helfgot was clearly his man and could have sealed the letter afterwards, but it didn't matter. Later I told Ryndan of the development and he told me to write to the Refuge. Edmund would have moved on by then so I declined and showed him another name on the list of party members he travelled with. Joseph Jenkins, brother to Jerewyn. I was going to ask if she could write to her brother to find out Edmund's location and Ryndan offered the use of his own military post box seeing as I didn't have one.

By the end of the day, with some help from Luciya in convincing Jerewyn, Jerry in writing the letter to her brother and Ryndan for the responding address to be his (and therefore quite quick in being sorted) we had clear lead on reaching the man I had searched for since awakening in Light's Hope Chapel. Lynara was made aware of the development and stated his congratulations on the matter.

Even though I lost Mort today, looking around at Luci, Jerry, Lynara and finally Ryndan, I couldn't believe I'd manage to surround myself in people who cared and even loved me enough to be happy for me. Never, after everything I had done, did I expect to feel deserving of such kindness and now I thrived on it.

* * *

Twelve days after Winter's Veil

He's leaving tomorrow. Shipping out, he calls it. All the final preparations were made and that was to be it.

I didn't like the lump in my throat. It was stupid, again, how scared this man made me feel. I didn't cry. I still haven't. I won't.

The next time I see him will be upon his return to Dalaran after victory at the Wrathgate.

I wanted to lament on the worst possible scenarios and how we've only just started to understand each other but it would serve no purpose. Instead we spent an hour together in the garden we walked previous before he had to head back to the barracks.

I was on his arm, as usual, though there was an underlying…desperation, in all of our moves, like we were hyper aware of tomorrow without even talking about it.

We discussed various things, most of the topics we'd covered before but I still laughed and he still smiled.

How did families and friends normally deal with this? I wondered. This looming shadow following them about knowing their closest were about to depart to potential death?

I tried not to think about it. Until we had to.

Our time grew short and we stood facing one another. If there's one thing I learned about this private man, it was that he was very intimate. Holding both of my hands in his, leaning down with foreheads touching was more thrilling and enticing than any kiss could be. We had only shared the two- that night on Winter's Veil- and while I hadn't seen fireworks á la Luciya's books, I had felt warm and wanted. We couldn't say anything- either out of fear or because we didn't know what to say. Ryndan was as new to this as me, I found out, and we were taking baby steps together.

"I want to meet you, when I come back. At night-time if possible," he had said to me.

"That sounds grand, anywhere in particular?"

"Here, anywhere, I don't care."

"How about somewhere exotic?"

He quirked his mouth at that. "Indeed? Does my lady have anywhere in mind?"

"Oh, I don't know," I whispered. "I've never seen the falls of Booty Bay."

"Been there, smells like fish and the people are worse. You'll be scammed out of your money before you take three steps."

"Hmm, when you put it like that…What about the neverending forests of Ashenvale? I hear they're very secluded and a wonder to walk amongst."

"The lumber mills can be heard for miles and it somewhat kills the mood."

"Tanaris?"

"Too much sand."

"What about Dun Morogh? I hear Ironforge is a great place to see."

"What, you mean you aren't already tired of all this snow?" he asked, pointedly drawing my cloak tighter around me.

"Oh very well, I guess I'll just have to meet you here then, won't I?"

His hands, still grasping my cape, circled around to my back and pulled me gently to him. Tenderly and slowly, I moulded into him, enjoying the warmth and steady bump-bump of his heart beneath his breast. His cloak wrapped around me and we revelled in the closeness we'd only just began to enjoy with each other.

"Here it shall be." A kiss graced the top of my head and all I could do was cling tighter, silently wishing he wouldn't leave, but knowing he had to and that here was where we would be.

* * *

The bells outside sounded and I looked up from my book, my thoughts still wrapped around last night's events. The afternoon had darkened but still the bell tolled for far longer than it should have. I threw on my cloak and made my way to the town centre.

By the time I reached it here were crowds already gathered. My gut twisted. News had no doubt been delivered, for I could see the town crier still standing above on the fountain. I pushed past people clinging to one another, desperate for proper news other than the scraps I tried not to hear.

Failed.

Dead, so many dead.

_Lich King._

Treachery.

The words filtered in an out until I reached the front _._

_Pleaseletthembealive._

_Pleasedon'tletthemhavedied._

He was still sounding out the parchment as if stuck in a loop, his voice hoarse and hands numb.

"- And by decree of all, the Undercity and Forsaken have been accused of treachery of the worst kind! Held to task for atrocities committed at the Wrathgate, Grand Apothecary Putress is branded  **Traitor**  by all and the capital city of Lordaeron is to be laid siege to tonight!"

He listed off the acts but I stopped listening.

The plague had been used, and it had killed hundreds. The plague I had made, had a hand in. The formula that I had corrected and used and calculated- they had taken it and bastardised it for their own and they'd  _used it._

The chaos around me was nothing compared to the anarchy in my head.

We were on the verge of yet another war.

And it very well might be my fault.


	59. The Battle of Angrathar the Wrathgate

Ryndan was not the same man as Lieutenant Commander Firesworn.

Lieutenant Commander Firesworn stood tall, strode purposefully, wore armour and kept a stoic face. Ryndan smiled, laughed, empathised, and dallied if he could.

Ryndan would be in Dalaran with his friends, or at home with his family if he had a choice. Lieutenant Commander Firesworn has no choice and marches through the encampment at the north of Dragonblight, answering a superior's summons.

As he arrives, Lieutenant Commander Firesworn notices the steely gaze from his Commander and  _just knows_. Ryndan would have thought it was directed at him.

Ryndan would have cried out in disgust at news of two deliberately absent Argent Battalions from the site. Lieutenant Commander Firesworn sits still, tight-lipped and attentive in the War Room of Fordragon Hold, his visage every inch the perfect soldier as he listened to the Highlord.

Dutifully nodding, Lieutenant Commander Firesworn takes his orders, observing the map before him and listens carefully to the seven other people around him. Ryndan would have demanded to know where the First and Second Regiments were and why key figures such as Fordring, Dalfors, Entari, Sunborn and more were not at the taking of Angrathar.

Ryndan would have blanched at the news that all able-bodied were to attend the assault- no exceptions- citing that his Commander excused him from this on account of not being at full health. Lieutenant Commander Firesworn feels no fear, feels no hesitation. Feels nothing.

Lieutenant Commander Firesworn offers no changes to be made to the proposals laid out to him this hour as the conference comes to an end. Ryndan would have declared the entire campaign as ludicrous and their troops outnumbered- even with the Horde.

Ryndan would have felt betrayal, horror and anger such as that felt during the Siege of Wintergarde. Lieutenant Commander Firesworn takes his orders and leaves to organise his troops.

Loud and clear does Lieutenant Commander Firesworn announce to his delegated division the plans of assault. Ryndan would have observed each face, each flicker of fear in the eyes trained on him as screams and cries echo from the valley behind them.

Ryndan would have been as overwhelmed with paralysing terror at the sheer enormity of the structure presented before them. Lieutenant Commander Firesworn ignores it reasoning with himself that they don't have to bring it down, just overtake it.

As a soldier, Lieutenant Commander Firesworn observes the current attack down below, counting the living soldiers to find to few and scanning the fallen only to find there were too many. Ryndan would have turned his back to the whole thing, unable to block out the terror resonating from the advanced-guard-on-shift behind him as another succumbs to the slaughter.

Ryndan wants to run screaming. Lieutenant Commander Firesworn attends the Battle of the Wrathgate.

* * *

"Highlord Bolvar!"

" _Thank The Light!"_

"For Lordaeron!"

_"For the Alliance!"_

Stationed front and ready, the Argent Crusade watched on as Highlord Bolvar Fordragon descended the Hold to attend to his troops. Morale soared, cries echoed and troops shone. "Wait for my signal," was the standing order from earlier. And so they assembled, crests bold and backs straight, presenting their entirety in the overbearing shadow of Angrathar. Confident and determined, the Leader of the Alliance Military strode to the front of his troops, fully armoured and a clear lion emblazoned on his chest. The last attack had been called off, the vanguard defending for their daily rotation retreating an hour prior to the sound of a bellowing horn. The Horde had done the same.

Cannon fire and ballistics had doubled in an effort to hold off what flow poured from the monumental stair ascending to Angrathar the Wrathgate while the armies organised. Unable to avoid it, Ryndan Firesworn perceived the structure dominating over them, mere ants attempting to take down a stone wall. It reared high and sharp, the metallic stand it made defying all who made purpose against it, challenging them into submission. The cool exterior formed seamlessly with its surrounding, the only indication that it was manmade being the artistic corrugation and curved spires spiking high above them in a display of superiority. A half-mile long and Light-knew how thick, Ryndan certainly understood why it wasn't simply possible to dismantle, even after a few months of siege.

But they had come together, defeated the unrest growing in the east and west until all were primed for this moment.

And now was the time to strike. Ahead, clad in gold and navy atop a platform, the Highlord silently looked over the assembly before him. The Crusade priests had already blessed the masses, but still his head bowed in silent prayer before meeting their gazes.

"Soldiers!" Fordragon cried. "Brothers! Sisters and friends! Today! Today is the day we succeed!" The voice carried over the undead rabble threatening to overspill into Dragonblight. Soldiers shifted as Scourgefiends and unnatural abominations pushed closer and closer through their overhead onslaught. "Today is the day history will remember! Today we enter into Icecrown; into the Lich King's domain and declare  _NO MORE_!" Blood began to boil, breathing became heavier, chests heaving with determination and those around him shifted in excited anxiety as his words hit the nail on the head with each syllable. His sword was raised high above the crowd.

"We do this for our children; for their children. We do this so that Azeroth may remain free from Scourge tyranny! We do this for ourselves! We do this for the soldier standing beside you! We do this for our fallen! We do this – For the Alliance!"

_"FOR THE ALLIANCE!"_

And the battle was underway.

Leading the charge, Fordragon was first to reach the gathering masses. First blood was drawn with one clear command heard in the small valley;  _"back you mindless wretches!"_

Ryndan's heart pounded louder than the armoured feet around him as they surged forward, tiding over and declaring war. Years of training and experience like no other, Ryndan's reflexes entered into play and adrenaline soared as the Scourge attempted a counter.

Familiarity nestled over him like a comforting blanket and a lightning strike all at once. He was in battle, he was in territory he knew. Weeks of rest had dulled him but not that much. Strength he lacked, but made up for it with finesse. The mud ground against his feet as he twisted them this way and that, keeping his movements tight and controlled in the crushing crowd of the front line. Up each step they went, crashing and throwing the lesser minions overhead, limbs torn from body as the zombie-like army literally fell apart under their offense. One ear was trained to his Commanders' voices, listening for any change in order. The other turned inwards, pinpointing the moment his heart nearly stopped as a mess of teeth made for his head in an effort to decapitate him. A stumble on his behalf saved him as he forced the creature over his soldier to be trampled into oblivion by the forces behind him.

They reached midway up the first set of stairs.

His armour was stiff and unused, leather straps too new, buckles too freshly made. His plate aegis had no give or wear yet and he knew that most of his troops would suffer the same, their armour born from the forges only this week. Despite Ryndan drilling his troops hard in full armour gear for three days after receiving the shipments, it wasn't nearly enough to break in the virgin garb. This disadvantage was overlooked in favour of numbers as Fordragon had declared the Crusade to enter equally with the Alliance, citing this was much their fight. Ryndan had no time to curse the Highlord's oversight as he watched a panicking young paladin's pauldron lock mid-swing.

Grunting, the elf slammed into the body of the ghoul that had turned its attentions to the soldier. Glazed eyes found his green and Ryndan shouted for the young woman to fall back. Stumbling awkwardly away out and down of his peripheral vision, she left to get attended, arm stuck behind her. Ryndan parried the rotted claws making for his guarded face, leaning back harshly as the minion bore all of its weight from the higher step. In a rash decision he caught the wrist of his attacker and held it fast. Crying for The Light, the skin beneath its hand burned and crawled its way up the monster where it became engulfed in a fit of holy fire. Light reflected within his helmet and Ryndan knew that others were doing the same. A leaper flew, its landing site an unsuspecting Alliance soldier that had her neck twisted before she would have a chance to realise what happened. Her body hadn't even collapsed by the time a half-dozen other soldiers descended on the creature and obliterated it.

Blades tore through degraded flesh and skin as a few minutes into their assault they reached the first plateau. A tauren bearing Crusade colours strode forward, a simplistic mace held within two hands that swung at an undead puppet with such force that he tore head from vertebrae and the skull flew far. Ryndan made sure to avoid the crumpled pile.

Now able to spread, the troops hurried forward around, all from the middle circling around the outside of it allowing two thirds of the encroaching armies to attend the remaining resistance. As planned, the troops at the back were to clear the way of bodies and burn them- enemy and friend alike with no exceptions. 'We don't want to fight this battle on two fronts,' they had been told, the Highlord referring to the necromantic powers available to the Scourge and Ryndan had to agree.

Skimming his eyes over the sea of bloodshed, Ryndan was minutely pleased to note how they were beginning to equal the volume of participants. He spied Terowin- standing out in his black against the throng of bright- cruelly halving three fiends with an almighty arc. The paladin crushed his elbow into the face of a new attacker, disabling it long enough for Ryndan to gain momentum with his blade and tear the fiend asunder. When he took in his surroundings, anticipating another attacker, he found Terowin watching him instead and making his way over. Ryndan didn't find out why.

A horn sounded and grating metal halted all action. Any Scourge still alive fell back in favour of a new foe.

_"Du sa dhu da gorrrah!"_

Broadcast from the Wrathgate itself, mouths fell in shock at this new breed of Vrykul- blue to the core and clearly cleverer than their southern brothers from the Fjords a ripple of worry ran around him. Their leader bellowed incomprehensible in defiance- Ryndan  _jerked_  at the intensity.

"Fight on, brothers!" Fordragon's own clear voice carried through the shock and Ryndan was among the first to move. He charged for the nearest blue-skinned giant, reeling in shock at the  _cold_ emanating forth from its body. They were damn near ice! Several others – Fordragon himself included were amongst the group assaulting this giant, ducking out of the way of a cruel club as it carved through the air towards them. Ryndan wasn't quick enough as the club catch his ribs sending him tumbling. Scrambling to his feet with the aid of an unseen soldier, he threw back into the fray calling loudly for The Light as he marked the giant harshly.

The Vrykul had not been accounted for in the briefing, meaning that it was only now they decided to make their shock appearance. Ryndan dreaded what else may lay behind that metal portcullis without their knowledge.

He was breathing harder than he liked, reflexes stunned still after being winded. Already was his armour marked and dented and still did the Paladin have to fight his own outfit for a margin of freedom. He attacked at the legs of the creature, hell bent on crippling it while others drew its attention and sought to blind it.

_"For the Hooorde!"_

Powerful cries of the same phrase over and over heralded the arrival of the Horde armies and a figure recognised to Ryndan as Saurfang the Younger joined Fordragon side by side.

"I was wondering if you would show up!" The paladin cried, dodging out of the way of a blind flail.

Saurfang laughed, "Well I couldn't let the Alliance have  _all_  the fun today!"

Rallied and spirited, the efforts doubled in taking down these rampant mountains. The first fell hard to his knees, the Vrykul too slow in its recovery to avoid Saurfang's axe burying deep and bloody into its face. Done in and thoroughly dead, their temporary objective expired and the group dispersed to aid others. There were twenty or so that Ryndan estimated at a glance, running breathily with one hand clutched to his side. He paused to observe a red-bearing orc violently shove an alliance defender out of the way of a Vrykul's misaimed swing, the soldier getting up in shock at what was nearly his own demise. He accepted the hand up that the orc offered and hands on shoulders, after a brief conference did they charge the offending opponent. Ryndan set forth to join them.

They fought on, tearing two more down simultaneously and gaining ground. Several Vrykul reared in a frenzy and fiercely kicked at their attackers, many troops soaring in the air before landing some feet away in unmoving piles, their flights accompanied by the startled cries of their comrades. Healers were upon them immediately as the rest attempted to gain control. Feet pressing hard into the earth, Ryndan sprinted to the next nearest, almost reaching to aid the shield-bearing crusader solely holding the giant's attention before the Vrykul lifted his weapon high and brought it down so hard upon the draenei that Ryndan choked on the surge of vomit that threatened his throat. He had to throw his helmet from his head to empty his mouth and the shrieks of horror at the act around him turned into hate and vigilance, claiming vengeance on the fallen man as they rushed the creature.

Even when it crashed heavily to the earth did people make sure to separate head from body.

Ryndan had recovered to direct a few stragglers either to the back lines to be tended or to retrieve wounded. Others, the more able and unharmed, he ordered to the remaining Vrykul – there were less than a dozen remaining. Horde, Alliance and Crusade alike fought side by side in an intense and uniform display of solidarity.  _If there was any good to come of this hellhole_ , Ryndan thought-

"Dan! There you are!" The voice caused the paladin to turn as he found Walden standing directly in his face. Terowin lurked near him, eying them, his axe sheathed.

"Walden! Wha-" an acute spasm afflicted Ryndan harshly in recognisable pain and when he looked down, he found one of Walden's blades hilt-deep in his inner-thigh…where his armour was weakest. Ryndan gaped at the man when his legs gave way.

"Help me! He needs a medic!" Walden called, withdrawing the weapon without amble. His yellow eyes never left Ryndan's. Treacherous dread spiked in the paladin's mind only second to the overwhelming panic that he was losing all feeling in his lower body. Terowin threw an arm over his shoulders and Ryndan struggled to protest in the wake of the numbness now climbing his body like a creeping vine. He was being carried away from the battle field, feet dragging, sword- he didn't know where. What he did know was that the poison was passing his hips and up to his abdomen. People hurried past him, still clearing the stairs as Terowin bundled them awkwardly down it.

_Help me! H-help- me!_

The words couldn't form. He was spared no glances because they thought he was being aided. Alarm grew tenfold in a moment. His chest was stilling, he could no longer draw breath.

The stairs ended as Terowin continued to drag his dead-weight away. Ryndan couldn't watch the leading form of Walden any more as the sounds of battle grew distant. Darkness encroached in his sight and his heart beat double-time attempting to live and force oxygen; but it wasn't coming. The harder his heart worked, the more he realised that this was what death felt like. His arms had left his body, unable to move and Ryndan was floating in a senseless world where he was bodiless and made of void.

Throat closed and head jerking, he barely noticed the liquid being forced into his mouth, his tongue feeling triple its normal size as his choking came out in soundless hacks. His mind had exploded in hysteria and distress, clawing,  _begging_  his body to work again. The spots faded to nothing and oblivion enveloped him like an old friend….

"You're still paying me- I'm not taking the blame for your miscalculation."

"Shut up, death knight. I'll pay you. He'll be fine. He must have lost more weight than I anticipated, damn poison, though  _you_  could have moved quicker."

Groggily and at a loss, the voices carried into his conscious as Ryndan came to.

"I attempted to avoid suspicion- as per your request, I might add."

"Don't you have ghouls to be raising to dance with?"

"Don't tempt me, undead. I could easily take your corpse for  _dancing_."

A feeble sound left Ryndan's lips. An attempt to open his eyes invaded his mind with a misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms.

"Ryndan? Wake up boy, you've had the antidote." Water assaulted him and Ryndan was suffocating again. "Oh okay, calm it there." Forced upwards, Ryndan spluttered until his lungs drew in whole, uninterrupted breath. His headache was massive and confusion doubly so.

"Wha-"In an attempt to lift his hands to his cradle his head, Ryndan found that they were shackled. And his feet were rope-bound. This didn't make sense. He couldn't be. No… a blurry look to Walden and Terowin confirmed this as reality, both watching him studiously.

"You've addled his brains with your venom, well done!" the death knight barked. "Look at that slack jaw!"

"Quiet Darksworn or I'll halve your payment." Walden turned to him, crouched on the balls of his feet. "Dan, listen- I had to do this, I promised your father that I would keep you safe…though ironically I ended up doing it with the blades he made for me."

It must have been minutes before Ryndan was able to process and respond to this joke. There was no way that this was happening. Blearily he noted the bandage compressing a gauze to his inner thigh. It was stained through with crimson.

Not a dream.

_"What the hell have you done?"_

"Ryndan- I had to get you out of there one way or another and this was the only way; you would not have come voluntarily. You cannot be down there."

'Down there'…? The…valley…the Vrykul….the Wrathgate-  _his_   _Crusaders_! Ryndan whipped his head around fast enough to caused severe pain but it wasn't enough to distract him from realising how high above ground they were.

The expanse lay before them, the armies gathering side-by-side as the last Vrykul was dragged from the battlefield. Towards the back, wounded were being carried on litters back to the bases as the organisation completed.

"Get me out of this damn thing! Walden!"

"I cannot do that, Ryndan. I'm sorry. Truly."

" _For what?!_  What reason would you have to possibly-"

"ARTHAS!" thunderous and demanding, Fordragon's booming voice echoed across the scarred chasm, crying a challenge to the single person they had marked for death above anyone else. Walden stood up, eyes trained on the scene unfolding below. Both he and Terowin moved to the edge of their overlook. So far that Ryndan could tell, they were Horde-side but not directly in the base.

"So it begins," the Baron whispered. Ryndan struggled with his shackles, the rusted metal and links not giving any leeway as he writhed.

"The blood of your father! Of your people! Demands  _Justice!_ " Fordragon continued. Ryndan spat at his wrists, attempting to encourage as much lubrication as possible to slide his wrists through-

"What  _is_  that fool doing? As if the Lich King would lower himself to come to this tea party," Terowin mumbled, his arms crossed and expression haughty. Ryndan pulled one shackle free, lowering it with care. He salivated more, his mouth and throat raw with dryness from his suffocation spell at Walden's hands.

"Come forth, coward! And answer for your crimes!"

"Tch, what an idiot the Alliance have leading them," Terowin continued. Ryndan worked his other hand free. Extracting a small blade from his bracer, he quickly moved to saw the ropes binding his feet. "The Master is probably sitting atop the Citadel laughing at this pathetic attempt of a challe-"A choked gasp obstructed Terowin's claim as the death knight drew still and … fearful?

Breaking free from his bonds, Ryndan clambered to his feet, his head already entering fight or flight in a round of _fightflightfightflight..fight…flight…flightflightflight_ only to be stopped in his tracks by the tell-tale screech of the Wrathgate opening up.

**"You speak of Justice…"**

That voice.

**"Of cowardice…"**

Ryndan turned on the spot.

**"I will show you the Justice of the Grave…"**

It was  _Him._

**"And the true meaning…"**

Failed Paladin of the Silver Hand and heir to the throne of Lordaeron.

**_"Of fear."_ **

Arthas, the Lich King.

This was Him, the sole reason for this blasted campaign in Northrend to begin with. The figurehead for the entire Scourge population plaguing the world with their very existence. He had damaged the Sunwell, cursed the Forsaken, and sent Naxxramas to be the death of them, and more crimes unmentionable. This was the figure from Ryndan's history classes that had torn Azeroth asunder in his madness and damned an entire race into extinction. Dark armour, a tattered cape and the fabled Helm of Domination crested his head like a false crown. Even from this distance, Ryndan could make out the lightning-blue of His cruel eyes.

This was just one man. One man was responsible for so much  _destruction_  and  _death_  in the world.

A simple twitch of His head in their direction would be enough for Ryndan to vehemently deny the urine that slid down his leg later on.

Afterwards, around inn fires and epic plays they will tell of Saurfang the Younger, the lone orc who dared defy the Lich King in his own domain. They will speak of a heroic speech of blood and honour. They will cheer and yell 'Lok'tar Ogar!'" as he and Arthas went blow-for-blow atop the steps of the Wrathgate stair until one gained ground.

But those that were there, those that bore witness know the truth. They will know that Dranosh Saurfang charged forward, with no fear in his heart, declaring "Enough talk! Let it be finished!" as his final words before he fell to one swoop of The Lich King's blade. No one will correct this storytellers, nobody will state that no blows were passed between the two. They will nod and agree silently, because in their hearts, they know that was the true hero's death Saurfang deserved.

They could only watch as the mythical Frostmourne passed over the corpse of the fallen orc, living up to its legend as his very soul was siphoned. The terrified silence that followed was permeated by two things- the cruel chuckle of the Lich King and the disturbed snow behind him as he raised minions from the remaining fallen.

" _Come on_ ," Walden hissed. " _Where are you?_ " Neither of the three men had moved in the wake of the events unfurling below them. Ryndan couldn't move his feet. The dead kept rising- ghoulish and hungry as he watched the bodies of men and women he had known be desecrated and violated in the worst way possible. The numbers kept amounting.

"You will pay…for all the lives you've stolen- TRAITOR!"

 **"Boldly stated, but there is** ** _nothing_** **you can-"** A burning blaze of green behind the armies prevented The Lich King from finishing.  **"What…?"**

"Ah, hah, hah, hah, ha…" a callous, sinister crow reverberated from a near cliff-side. A Forsaken, cloaked in ragged cloth and an old-fashioned, distorted plague-doctor's mask. But that wasn't what gave Ryndan cause to suck in his breath.

"Did you  _think_  we had forgotten…?"

There were catapults.  _Plague catapults,_  such as those he had seen in the Fjords.

"Did you  _think_  we had forgiven…?"

They edged forward to the top of their crevice. They were full to the brim.

"Behold now…"

Ryndan was moving without realising. He could get up- he could stop them **!** _I have no weapon!_  The thought barely crossed his mind- he just had to get up there! He had to stop them!

"The terrible vengeance of the Forsaken!"

A force unnatural gripped his throat and shot him backwards, landing hard and restrained by Terowin's superior strength.

"No, Dan! You cannot interfere! This has to happen!"

"Get the hell  _off_ \- of- ME!"

The catapults launched.

No…no….nonononono-  _NO!_

The arc in which the very first barrel descended took an age in Ryndan's eyes. He saw the Vrykul at Westguard, dissolving before his eyes. He remembered the stench of burned flesh and the acid of the bile in his mouth. He remembered the screams…and cries…and bellows for mercy…

And now he was witnessing it a hundredfold.

"Death to the Scourge!"

The first barrel made contact.

"And death…to the Living!"

The rest followed suit.

" _FALL BACK!"_  the one command heard over the bombardment was the one Ryndan knew they wouldn't be able to carry out.

He had stilled in Terowin's grip, watching in horror as the effects of the plague took immediate effect. The cloud covered the sight of their deaths, but not the sounds. Not the retching, the tearing of their own guts, the shrieks as their skin melted from their very bones. Screams transitioned to gargles as he imagined their skin convulsing and protesting, burning from the inside out.

"In the name of the Dark Lady what have we done?"

It was one whisper. One horror-stricken whisper from Walden that caused Ryndan to snap. Emanating a Light-burst so powerful that Terowin was forced to drop him for being blinded, Ryndan stumbled to grab Walden's collar.

"You knew?! You knew this was going to happen?  _And you didn't fucking WARN US?!_ " The Forsaken made no attempt to appease the paladin, to deny or lie, he only nodded mutely.

It was only the quietening of the valley below them that brought Ryndan out of his frenzy. Breathing harsh and loudly, his body shaking with fury as he turned to the scene below him.

Dead.

All of them

He could see the figures of escapees running for their camps, the catapults now finished in their unholy barrage.

 **"This. Isn't. Over…"** The Lich King retreated back into his domain. And they were dead. All of them.

It was like Light's Hope Chapel all over. Tabards of white, blue and red littered the field, intermingling and disintegrating as The New Plague took hold. So many dead. And for what?

"Now, _all_  can see…"

The clouds cleared and so did the fight in Ryndan.

"This... is the Hour... of the Forsaken." The Apothecary retreated and the carnage ended.

_They had failed._

The Wrathgate wasn't even taken. They were no closer to gaining entry into Icecrown. Betrayed by their own allies…

All of it- they had died, for  _nothing._

It was this one thought that crushed him. He dropped Walden. He dropped to the ground and so did his heart.

"Dan, I-"

"If I see you again I will have a sword in my hand and it will not hesitate to end your pathetic excuse for a life."

Ryndan never heard him leaving. He was too busy racking with sobs, despairing over the pointless loss of those he had fought beside only an hour ago. He cried for them, for their families. He shook as the betrayal of their allies made as much sense as the slaughter he had just witnessed. At least in Naxxramas they had gone down fighting. But here, here they had been slain like sheep in a pen, unable to escape, to even know they were in danger. He choked on his gasps, knowing that whatever happened, Ryndan would have to struggle with his own survival and how he should have been down there with his subordinates, with his comrades…with his  _friends._  Danila? Edrikson and Riverwind? Ashwood and McGreaves? Lynara he knew was attending the Horde- had any of them escaped? The sheer size of the massacre made him think it unlikely.

It was dusk when the dragons arrived. It was dusk when the flames of the Life-Bringer ended all poison and toxin to start afresh on this vile and corrupt mass grave.

It was dusk when Ryndan was able to will himself to his feet and turn his back on the vain and worthless site that was supposed to have been the triumphant and glorious Battle of Angrathar, the Wrathgate.


	60. Author's Note- Battle for the Undercity

History Lesson time! *dons teacher's cap*

Hello! An unusual author's note here, but I fear it's necessary before I move further on in the story.

For the most part I rely on the reader's knowledge of the game, NPCs, some lore and landscape to take the burden off of my storytelling but there is one element where I fear that's not possible and that's the aftermath of the Wrathgate. The Battle for the Undercity quest line was removed from the game in Cataclysm, much to the disappointment of many (myself included). Here is a little bit of background information to those that did not experience it after reaching the Wrathgate.

1-Grand Apothecary Putress; a head alchemist of the Royal Apothecary Society, sided with a demon called Varimathras (assumedly a minion of Kil'Jaeden/The Burning Legion) and betrayed the Forsaken AND Horde at the Battle for Angrathar (with the plague). He was the one in the plague-doctor's mask. Even though Arthas utters 'Sylvanas', He is assuming this was The Banshee Queen's doing and blames her for it. He is not identifying the figure at Angrathar as Sylvanas as some people believed.

2-After the Wrathgate cut scene in-game, Alexstrasza asks you to come to her. For a Horde Player she will tell the player to deliver Saurfang's armour to High Overlord Saurfang (his father) in the Borean Tundra.

3-Or, for Alliance, you are to inform Varian of the betrayal and the death of Bolvar Fordragon; the stand-in steward for Stormwind (and close confidant of the king) while Varian was away.

4-Horde Players and Jaina attend Orgrimmar where it is revealed that there are Forsaken Rebels at work taking over the Undercity. All are to report there immediately to reclaim the city (Horde for the Forsaken and the Alliance to re-join the capital to the kingdoms in its former glory. Note that at this point Varian is  _extremely_  pissed at the treachery of them and the death of his friend).

5-Horde start at the Lordaeron courtyard, Alliance gain entry through the sewers.

6-Thrall along with Sylvanas and Vol'jin led the assault into Undercity itself to reclaim it for the Horde. After fighting the Forsaken rebels and the demons within, the combined might of the Horde slew the traitorous demon Varimathras in the Royal Chambers.

7-When entering Undercity, Varian becomes disgusted by the condition of the once great city, which he knew since childhood. Tracking Putress to the Apothecarium, Varian and Jaina defeat him. But, to Varian's horror, they also discovered dozens of mutilated and defiled human corpses, on which the Apothecary Society experimented to create the New Plague; realizing that although the Alliance and Horde agreed to a small truce over the years and for this war against the Lich King, the Royal Apothecary Society had been secretly creating a means to kill them all. This assassination plot includes Sylvanas herself and any Forsaken who did not share or want these traitorous plans.

8-Between both factions, the Undercity is cleared.

9-The Alliance confront the Horde in the Royal Chambers. Varian declares this:

_"I was away for too long. My absence cost us the lives of some of our greatest heroes. Trash like you and this evil witch were allowed to roam free - unchecked._

_The time has come to make things right. To disband your treacherous kingdom of murderers and thieves. Putress was the first strike. Many more will come._

_I've waited a long time for this, Thrall. For every time I was thrown into one of your damned arenas... for every time I killed a green-skinned aberration like you... I could only think of one thing._

_What our world could be without you and your twisted Horde... It ends now, Warchief._

_ATTACK! FOR STORMWIND! FOR BOLVAR! FOR THE ALLIANCE!"_

Jaina halts the attack by freezing them in place and mass-teleports the Alliance army out.

The result is that the tentative truce between the two factions is henceforth dissolved and hostilities are high once more. Varian has declared war on the Horde. Meanwhile, in order to ensure that no more Legion-aligned abominations crawled out of the Apothecarium, Thrall sent a legion of Kor'kron Guard led by Bragor Bloodfist to occupy the Undercity, guarding it from threats outside, and from any that may remain within following The Battle for the Undercity. The Forsaken are now distrusted more than ever by other races of the Horde even though they were betrayed by Putress and The Royal Apothecary Society just as much as everyone else. The Forsaken that are now left (due to a lot of them being killed by the treacherous Forsaken and demons from the Burning Legion) have to redeem themselves for Putress's betrayal which has left them bitter due to being left in a mess for something they didn't want to happen.

My decision to leave out the Battle for the Undercity stems from the removal of the quest in game. Writing about it from videos and dialogue wasn't working for me when I attempted, especially since it was years ago since I last experienced it. This way the playing field is levelled and people who did not attend the Battle before it was removed will not feel as gutted at it being left out. This is one time that I think my writing may have not done it justice, I didn't want to reopen old wounds and I'll use a small handful of flashbacks and conversations instead in coming chapters to demonstrate the state of things instead.

Many apologies if you were expecting the Battle for the Undercity but truthfully, it was a very long event with little happening until afterwards, as epic as it may have been. There's a lot of political unrest from here on out and I figured you would want the reasoning in a clear format for those that don't remember/haven't played this part of the Warcraft history.

Okay, lesson time over. I'm going to leave this author's note here for future readers seeing as I don't think Blizzard will re-implement the chain in-game.

Loryn xx

 


	61. Tourniquet I- Aftermath

The Argent Vanguard rest atop a hill overlooking the Valley of Echoes like a lookout on a crow's nest, primed and wary of any approaching storm.

And what storms the base weathered against.

It was well structured, well defended and well stocked. The military precision of the entire operation impressed Ryndan with its efficiency, designated Infirmary area and delegation of work. The whole thing ran like clockwork and it was easy to become entangled in the monotony of slaying and defending against the Nerubians breaking through The Breach from southern Icecrown. If only there wasn't one glaringly obvious fact about the damned place that put Ryndan ill at ease, he probably would have become swept up in the crude routine of it all-in fact, it would have been preferable to his revelation.

He arrived straight from a stopover in Dalaran and went straight to task, sword in hand and numbness in his chest. The Wrathgate had happened three days ago and he hadn't slept.

He couldn't.

Sleep seemed too far away, too disrespectful and the adrenaline threading his veins instead of blood was too high to allow him rest. Even if he crashed, he doubted rest is what he would get.

The Battle for the Undercity was…over. There was no other word for it. The rebels had been quashed, the leaders slain and the entire Forsaken race under the watch of the Kor'kron Militia, as per the Warchief's request.

The Alliance had declared war on the Horde.

It was such a mess. A huge, confusing, precarious and quite frankly tiresome mess. Dalaran had been in uproar and vague panic when he had arrived after the siege. Hushed whispers and declarations of fear from frivolous people around him who had nothing to be scared about because  _they had no idea_  was just too much for Ryndan.

He couldn't stay there.

The casualties were still piling up, rosters unchecked and many, so _, so_  many unaccounted for. At least two-thirds of his regiment was dead, that he knew. There was no one to report to directly. He had taken a portal back to Dalaran effective immediately as soon as the ending of the siege would allow, not wishing to stay in the rot-infested city any longer. His ears were still ringing with the clash of blade on bone, the cries of mercy and the laughs of the maddened. The stench of undeath lingered on his person. There was a call to arms to arrive at the new base at the bottom of Icecrown, and after checking in with the Crusade at the capital, he had made his way here without a second glance back. It was too chaotic, there was nothing for him to be responsible over. The Fourth Regiment, his own, was dissolved… a word Ryndan found himself startling (and distressed) at being literally true. No, there was nothing to keep him in Dalaran otherwise he would have lost his... temper? Patience? Sanity? All three? Probably.

He hadn't even looked for Cersae. How could he face her?

The answer was simple- he couldn't. His solace was found in his blade, arriving at the Vanguard and being directed to the nearest battle site. He had received a startled look from one of the Commanders but he didn't care. He needed to do something. He probably looked beyond battle-worn, dirt covered, callous and altogether crazed but that would be down to the fact that that was exactly how he was feeling. Even so, he was itching for more, the fight not drained out of him from Lordaeron as it should have been.

It wasn't until an hour later, his hands numb, his face frozen, armour blood-painted and body trembling with exertion did he fall back to the sound of a horn. Night was falling and they didn't want soldiers out in the even-more-dark. Not that it wasn't already pretty bleak, but the paladin put that down to his general mood and overall inability to remain stable and aware of his environment. The only colour that would stand out to him would be red, and it had to be that  _specific_  shade to register. Anything less than crimson and he wasn't interested. Instead he strode back through the gates, his armour creaking, barely having left his body these past few days except to tend to one or two dents in his chest plate so he could breathe and the only time he's needed to relieve himself. Dalaran had mocked him with its cleanliness and order. He didn't want to stay. He needed to see blood, to see Scourge die- to feel like he was  _doing_  something, like he was making  _a bloody difference_. And it needed to be by his hands.

His allocated tent at the Vanguard was frozen and his blanket threadbare. There were many tents, gaining and losing occupants dependant on the state of the previous tenant. He hadn't been here a full day and already some people were leaving, declaring this useless and futile. They weren't words he needed to hear right now. 'Failure' was more taboo than any blaspheme against The Light or law that Ryndan could muster.

He'd been mindful enough to obtain his pack from the barracks, but not to pack anything more. He could have taken a few blankets, Light know his soldiers won't be needing them any time soon.

No sleep was had that night. Instead a man lay still on his cot, reliving the scenes over and over, always ending in fire.

He couldn't get Walden's face out of his mind.

* * *

First port of call the next day was to report to the Command table up top. Skipping any form of nourishment, he climbed hard up the steep side, reaching the crest and was granted a view of the entire valley. Over the walls Ryndan spied the current defence. In the far distance to the north-west, a gap littered with wooden scaffold mocked them with the poor attempt to enter the deadly region- it was blocked with thick webbing viewable even from this distance.

Figures danced about the field ahead, larger shadows with too many legs battling them with mockery and condescension. It was a pitiable situation, even with new adventurers arriving and on the way. After the Wrathgate, Ryndan just didn't feel the same surge of terror he had at the necropolis. They now seemed so insignificant, so infantile; these deformed creatures.

He had time to draw himself up short when he presented himself to the command table, a new, uncomfortable helmet in the crook of his arm and freshly-made sword at his back. He wore the armour made for him only in the last weeks and he had new callouses and blisters to cushion it. The rubbing and pain kept him vaguely aware. And his awareness was ringing alarm bells rather loudly as the tall figure bent over the table stood and turned.

Ryndan was reporting to Tirion Fordring.

The paladin hadn't seen the man since Valgarde and very had little had changed about the Highlord. Ryndan severely doubted he could say the same for himself.

"Come forward, soldier, we have much to discuss." One hand beckoned him forward as its owner turned back to regard various documents.

But he couldn't move at his superior's request. His feet remained grounded and his anger was rooted deep into the earth through them, holding him in place. The Horde hadn't been the only ones betrayed that day, the Crusade had also whether they realised it or not. Ryndan had done the maths, there were enough people here for certain. The First and Second Regiments were making home here.

"Soldier-?" Fordring looked up from his plans, a frown formed. And then recognition sparked. "I know you- from Valgarde?"

Ryndan nodded, his voice finding himself again out of drilled habit than actual desire to speak. "Yes, sir." Was he too harsh? Too cutting with his answer? The flash of surprise from the Highlord might indicate as much.

"Yes…Commander… _Ashwood's_  man, aren't you? Fire…sworn, is it?"

"That is correct, sir."

"Is the Commander here with you?"

"No sir, she remains in Dalaran. Critical condition at last word."

There was a moment's pause as the leader of the Argent Crusade regarded Ryndan curiously- and then intently. The pause was more of a silent inquisition as Ryndan refused to lower eye contact.

"You were at the Wrathgate." A statement, not a question.

"Yes. I was." Ryndan replied tightly. After a moment, he added as stiff "Sir" for good show.

The older paladin was frowning deeply, his lined face even more shadowed. It occurred to Ryndan, as they stood across from each other, bearing the same colours and standing at the same height, that they were both men. Both mortal beings serving together by happenstance, by their own choices to lead them to this very moment. Except, by social agreements and construction, this man had the power to order Ryndan to his death with a few words. The thought is spurred on by the very event that occurred not four days ago, where at his command, three regiments were indeed, sent to their deaths. He may not have had a direct hand in the massacre, but his orders and absence and…the Vanguard were enough to hold him as accountable as the Forsaken rebels- at least in Ryndan's mind.

If Fordring saw bitterness in Ryndan's eyes he didn't say anything. Instead with a tight grimace does he clap Ryndan's shoulder with an uttered "Very well, glad to have you on board, soldier."

Ryndan is given directions for the day, a general overview of the situation- and it's not as advanced or ahead as it should be. Not for the sacrifice they'd made. "Alas, we fight this battle divided." Ryndan is told, as if he wasn't there to witness this first hand. "The Horde and Alliance are in the throes of war and will lend us no support. We must remain unyielding in our cause! For what choice have we to do otherwise?"

None. There is no choice. Fight or die. Fight and die. Fight to die. They all merged into one inescapable outcome and Ryndan couldn't help but decide that somehow, if he died, it would count for _nothing_. As the man before him spoke of honour and loyalty, the more Ryndan became convinced that his death would be for nought and the acceptance of this was enough to roil his empty stomach in ways that it already hadn't in the last four days.

He is sent to see the man he reported to yesterday- Commander Entari. One of the notable figures absent from Angrathar like Fordring.

He tries not to claw away at the invisible handprint that burned his body.

* * *

Entari is a good soldier, fit for leading. He stands out in fitted armour shining bright against his dark skin. His hair is still the same, short style Ryndan has seen him with previously. There was a lot of respect between the two in the past, on the few short missions they had shared at the Plaguelands and before. So when Entari turns to delegate Ryndan, the newcomer, Ryndan is surprised.

He doesn't even recognise the paladin.

Entari glosses over him, deeming him fit for purpose as he rattles on in a gravelly voice, gesturing this way and that obnoxiously. "Where both the Alliance and the Horde failed, the Argent Crusade succeeded," he elaborates proudly. "The success, however, was short lived. Our breach into Icecrown was quickly - and with force - rebuffed. The Lich King's retaliatory strike was immediate and brutal. Now we are on the defensive."

It takes all of Ryndan's remaining energy not to crash a gauntlet into the side of this man's face and instead listens with caution at the state of the Vanguard. And what a state it's in.

They had tried to blast through the cliff side, stupidly and without survey, unleashing a horde of Nerubian and Scourge upon themselves. It was their own recklessness that brought on the constant battling outside the base, losing more and more men and women to cut down those that came through. Ryndan's bristling withdraws slightly at the annoyed expression of the Commander. Despite mocking the 'failure' of both Alliance and Horde, he admits the faults and flaws in the pride of the Crusade, bringing this hell upon themselves. It gives the elf a rather disturbing sense of justice.

This pettiness all falls in favour of alarm. The Nerubians are cocooning their own soldiers, acting as defensive shields. The Highlord has ordered no artillery or cannon fire until all soldiers are retrieved.

Ryndan is sent, amongst others, to free them. Their small groups get overrun without additional support.

* * *

It's futile and useless. For every soldier freed, another two were captured or killed- or both. Not all cocoons hacked open contained brethren; more than once did a desiccated husk of a former soldier tumble out, their skeleton rattling under their armour and a scream still affixed to their face.

Even upon returning to Entari, carrying a bloodied and concussed sergeant with one arm over his shoulders and one of Ryndan's around his waist, is he told that they've made no progress. Since the birth of The Breach, they've killed enough to fill ten graveyards and it still isn't enough. They're never-ending, and if there's one thing Ryndan's learned as a commanding officer- never let your subordinates see defeat. Not even fleeting. The man he used to respect and revere before him failed this with flying colours and instead muttered under his breath, glaring at maps and scoresheets.

With this in mind does Ryndan disgustedly push past the commander to take the moaning soldier to the Infirmary.

Upon leaving, his own brief injuries fussed over and dismissed by his own request, he comes across a face absent from the Undercity.

Making his way past the stables, headed towards the row of tents dedicated to rest and 'privacy' does he spot him. A head of bottle-green hair towers high occasionally bending and peaking in the sleeping quarters in an effort to find one for himself.

Ryndan's on him before his body reminds him of how battered he is. Terowin spots him thundering towards his position, a twisted sneer on his face that darkens when he realises that Ryndan is viciously calling for his blood.

The paladin doesn't strike him, but he  _does_  threaten. The death knight laughs throatily, not taking Ryndan's warning seriously, and instead goads him. They're standing in a row of tents, in a far corner of the Vanguard and all Ryndan can envision over and over is the sight of this bastard rotting with everyone else at the Wrathgate like he should have.

Darksworn speaks again, his mouth flapping and tongue waxing cruel declarations. And Ryndan can't focus on restraint any more. He's sick of holding back against wrongdoers. He throws the first punch.

Terowin's reaction is immediate, dropping his axe and sack to adopt a fighting stance, but Ryndan doesn't let him catch his balance. He goes in for a sweep only to be countered by an uppercut that catches his jaw.

The pain narrowed his field of vision sharply. Defensive, angered, spitting blood and past caring did Ryndan barely block the next blow, trading it for an undercut to the sternum. Belatedly he realised the futility of such an aim as death knights don't get winded. Terowin smirked through his grunt, receiving less than what he was giving, but Ryndan was past honour now. Honour, loyalty, morals…where did that get them in the end apart from dead? The battlefield was no place for such scruples, and it was only now, in the prime of his military career did Ryndan brutally understand this. There were no fair rules in war, no referee like the arenas Terowin attended and with this in mind did he unleash a torrent of forced Light prayers. The effect was minimal, Ryndan's fervour too gone to concentrate, but it was distracting which worked enough for the paladin. He bypassed the curses and the sharp knee to the gut to press his face into Terowin's space. With one hand on the bastard's chest, Ryndan choked out his spell and earned a howl from his opposition. He was thrown a few feet away in response. Standing back up, sharply breathing through a blinding headache and muscles past their limit, Ryndan observed the venom in the man primed before him. He was game now. All rules were dropped, this no longer a brawl to relieve tensions, but a malicious and spiteful fight that would only end when blood was spilled- and in mortal amounts. They both wanted it.

The two bared their teeth- one in a snarl, the other in a contorted grin- waiting for an unseen signal-

"What in the King's name is going on here?!"

The small crowd gathered around them parted to reveal a Militia superior.

"You- Lieutenant Commander; stand down immediately!"

Terowin sneered, a line of treacle dripping from his mouth.  _If it bleeds, you can kill it._

"Lieutenant Commander!"

It wouldn't take much, just enough energy to burn through his throat, down his windpipe, into his core…

"So help me you will be demoted so far that scullery boy will be too rich a name for your rank- STAND. DOWN."

The Light gathered within him and it would be  _oh so easy_.

It'd be for The Wrathgate. For the Undercity. For the dead. For his friends. For-

"Ryndan!"

Lynara? A flash of blond entered his vision and he was forced to look away in disbelief. The tension sparked into the air, fizzling into the cold. Lynara was here- alive and mostly unharmed. A bag on his shoulder indicated his recent arrival but the relief was enough to extinguish the ugly twisting of his gut. Up to this point, Ryndan hadn't realised how much he had prepared himself to be informed of Lynara's demise, only now to find that wasn't the case. His arms dropped heavily, fatigue weighing down on him tenfold. His headache was sharp and crisp above his eye, reaching all around to the back of his head. His limbs were trembling with exhaustion and his brain could barely compute the dissipating crowd as they whispered around him.

"Take him to the hospital, priest- and make sure he  _stays_  there until further notice. I will attend his superiors." The loud voice left and gave way to Ryndan slumping in assault of all the pain he ignored in his frenzy.

"Oh holy-" Lynara's weak frame snaked underneath him and pulled him forward. Ryndan didn't look over his shoulder. He could feel Darksworn's poisonous gaze following him out and away from their fabric enclosures, but he was too burnt out. The last semblance of energy he had crashed like a thrown stone and it was all he could do to help his friend take him to the Infirmary. The sounds of battle entered his cognisance from the Valley of Echoes over the base walls. The sky was still a sheet of greying despair, a lead-like mist hanging around them, cutting off most visibility beyond a hundred feet. It didn't erase the knowledge of the cocooned soldiers not so far from where they stood, halting most progress while the Nerubians battered at their front door. He was concentrating on not passing out.

"You idiot, not even healed from the Undercity and you're picking fights with someone double your strength. I should have chained you to the hospital in Dalaran,  _but_   _no_ , you run off at first hint of Argent presence before I can even confirm your whereabouts. Damn fools, all of you…" the mutters from the smaller man continue as they hobble and grunt their way past the tents. Upon arrival, Father Gustav, with a minor frown, directs them to a tent size enough to house four cots in close proximity and one in the middle of the row should they have no choice. Ryndan is dropped onto one spare bed without grace and concern. Lynara rummages for water, cloth and other aids, mutters still decorating his cold breaths. Ryndan wasn't listening as he kneeled in front of him. He thinks he has cracked or broken ribs, not realising how laboured his breathing has become.

"Why the  _hell_  were you fighting in this state? You should know that Terowin is far more powerful than he lets on, damn it."

_"They're losing more than they're saving out there. Seems like a pitiful waste of life."_

"Lift your chin, let me see this head." The water is shockingly cold and the flinch does nothing to aid his breaths.

_"Pretty clever of the Nerubians to use your own soldiers as living shields, they know you well enough to know that morality is your weakness and ultimate downfall."_

"Turn your face- don't squirm, I need to disinfect it. Do you feel nauseous at all?"

_"You will not fire on your own soldiers, so you send out more to save the few, but the mathematics just isn't adding up to the positive, is it? You're losing more than you're rescuing."_

"Unbuckle your pauldron, I need to see your shoulder- and take that breastplate off, I don't like the wheezing you're making." Fingers gently prod his undershirt, the delicate hands firm and consistent in their pressure.

_"It seems to me that your Highlord favours holding a face of Honour and Loyalty for the Crusade than he does his own soldiers' lives."_

"Just bruised and tender, much like the rest of you. Foolish man, what on earth am I to do with you? Our siblings would kill me if- Ryndan?  _Ryndan_?"

_"Wouldn't you agree, Firesworn?"_

"Ryndan, speak to me. Why did you start fighting with Terowin?" Lynara's concerned, paling face floated in his blurred vision and a cold stone dropped in his stomach.

"Because he was right."

* * *

He wasn't punished, just warned to stave off aggressive behaviour. His ribs disallowed him any comfort, Lynara unable to heal him as he was pretty worn out himself. They remained in the hospital for the remainder of the day, both unfit to start anything just yet. A brief conference beforehand revealed Lynara's survival by way of transporting wounded from the scene. He had been attended at a hospital displaced from the gate when the Forsaken had attacked. Ryndan found himself grateful for whoever was injured severely enough for Lynara to follow him from the field. But he had still borne witness to the devastation and its aftermath in Lordaeron.

"There's something so off about this base," Lynara comments quietly, peering out of the tent at the general traffic. "It's too…I don't know. Clean? Organised? It feels strange. Is it odd I should complain about something that works well?"

"You wouldn't be wrong," Ryndan remarks. Lynara quirks a brow at him, turning his face in the process allowing the outside light to highlight the sickly quality about his friend. A fresh bruise, swelling gone down, is probably only one of many the man is sporting beneath his homespun robe. The hollowness in his eyes is more than testament to his attendance at Angrathar. "I've lived in military conditions for years. I've aided in construction, design, labour and organisation of many encampments and this-"he gestures to the outside world, "-this is running like clockwork. Yes, beyond the walls is chaos, but inside the walls everyone knows their place and duty."

He pauses, eyes flitting over a tauren transporting medical supplies, a gowned and masked night elf, shivering in his bloodied smock as he rushed past to attend someone else. There was business and work and demands and tasks and emergencies cropping up, but no panic or disorder accompanied it like it should. Idly he fiddles with a loosened buckle, hands itching for something to do.

"This place wasn't built in a few days or a week. Hell, it probably wasn't even built in a  _few_  weeks. No, this place has been in construction for months and that's why it's so perfect. You must be used to ports still building and small bases of operations that are unfinished and that's why this seems so odd; because it's so  _complete_." Lynara nods slowly in understanding, silently agreeing that that was what he had been used to before Dalaran.

"The wood is too expensive, the stone too finely cut for this to be a recent thing, wouldn't you agree?" Lynara nodded again, squinting in slow understanding. "The Vanguard is far too comfortable for this to be sudden- and of course, it's 'we-just-happened-to-find-another-way-into-Icecrown' story? Bull. It also confirms a theory of mine." He didnt wait for an enquiry from Lynara to continue. His mind was stretched to its limits as is and the only thing he could do was verbalise his thoughts in an effort to make any sense of it. "Fordring planned this base months ago. Months.  _Before_  the Wrathgate.  _Before_  Naxxramas. This.  _This_  foothold right here is the reason we were left to flounder at both battles. We were simply a distraction. Fordring knew that the Wrathgate was going to fail- either that or he wasn't investing in it for victory. We were fed to the war machine like fodder, and like blind sheep we followed."

" _What_? Ryndan that's a wild accusation to say!" Rightly so did the priest look incredulous, unconsciously lowering the curtain of the tent as if it would halt their conversation from reaching outside ears. Once more they entered a shadowed atmosphere and he couldn't help but think it matched the current situation.

"Is it though? Do you know about The Breach?" Lynara nodded. "That Breach was made four days ago- on the day of the Wrathgate. Tell me that you don't think that's suspicious. That it was a mere coincidence that the same day that Arthas' eyes were elsewhere, they were creating a new hole into Icecrown."

"I- I have to say that is somewhat…odd. Circumstantial even." The elf frowned, as if he couldn't believe his own words. Ryndan didn't blame him.

"Lynara, I've spoken with both Fordring and Commander Entari- both very high up in the chain of command. Neither of them showed the slightest remorse about the Wrathgate, like they had _prepared_  themselves for the possibility- nay, the  _eventuality_  that it wouldn't stand. But even so, Entari became defensive and downright dismissive at everyone who attended there because they had failed. Like it should have been child's play. Lynara- they weren't there, they didn't  _see_  the Wrathgate, they didn't  _see_  the plague at work nor did they see The Li-  _Him_." He choked on the title, envisioning those eyes that pinioned Ryndan for a brief moment. He had been unwanting to focus on any particular aspect of the battle, but there was something about that moment, that fleeting second that struck Ryndan breathlessly to his core. Like he had been caught and marked by Arthas himself. It was enough to give him cause to shudder. But now there was more to be wary and cautious of. To be fighting on two fronts was dangerous and exhausting, especially when one was supposed to be the home front.

Ryndan raised his head from where it had fallen into his hands, being cradled in the same manner one might soothe an infant. There was too much- it was too confusing. Too damning and harrowing. His trust was shaken as much as his reasoning for even attending Northrend in the first place. Doubt was well and truly seeded.

"I don't know what to do, Lynara. The people, the cause I dedicated myself to is slipping through my hands. We're not seen as people anymore. We're numbers, tally marks and letters of consolation to families. They don't care and this Honour-and-Loyalty crap is proof of that. Terowin was  _right_ , and I attacked him because  _I just couldn't disagree_. We're disposable and the  _death_ _knight_  was right. There's something fundamentally  _wrong_  when a  _former scourge soldier_  calls out your methods and reasons. Look at the scenes outside and tell me that it's worth sending in and _losing_  ten, twenty men to rescue one.  _Tell me that you think that's justified_!" Panic was riding high on his adrenaline comedown and second wind and overall Ryndan thought his sword was looking fairly favourable at this point in time.

The response was so quiet he mightn't have heard it over the sound of his own erratic heartbeat. "Ryndan, you know I have to say that it is."

"Whether you agree with it or not?"

"Whether I agree with it or not."

A silence stretched between them, the brothers unable to say anything in the defence of the Crusade, of the cause they stood for and fought against. In the end, Ryndan could only slump in defeat.

It was late afternoon when Ryndan was called to battle again, relieved of his 'confinement', them unable to spare a still-working, still-standing body.

Getting up, stretching the kinks out of his back he asked Lynara one last question. His heart was in his throat and his mind clutching for answers as it broke free from his mind, his grief and his madness.

"Lynara, when did my sword become so heavy?"

* * *

The new problem was so new that they hadn't time to deal with it yet, not even four days after The Breach had opened.

"Poison," Father Gustav had said. "Toxin from the Nerubians, it's killing and maiming those unfortunate enough to get caught in the clutches of the mandibles but we don't have any antivenin for it."

Of course they didn't. Any corpses remaining from the Arachnid chambers in Naxxramas were lost in the rubble as the thing had crashed to the ground, decimating all in a several-mile radius. There were whispers of something similar on the far side of Dragonblight but that was too far to help anyone effective immediately.

And so Ryndan was paired with a trapper to defend him on the field. Several of these groups were paired, the soldier's sole purpose to defend their partner while they dissected and retrieved venom sacs from the fallen Nerubian. Help had been called for from Dalaran for brewers and chemists to extract such an antivenin from this, but until they arrived, they needed to gather the correct glands. Seeing as Ryndan had no idea, it was all he could do to clear the way to a crooked corpse for the woman to get what she needed from it. The entire operation from departure to retrieval to return took an estimated two hours and he was very impressed with the professionalism, stamina and tenacity of his nameless ward. Especially since three of the groups failed, two at once, succumbing to a sudden attack and another later on when they had nearly finished. He had ground his teeth and ignored all gut instinct that told him to turn back, but they needed to get these glands back to the infirmary as soon as to save those already thrashing in fever and sickness.

If the Light was making an appearance today, Ryndan certainly wasn't feeling Its presence.

Wet, numb, aching and successful did they return, venom sacs in hand as the woman bloodily handed it over to a nurse. It was whisked away to who-knew-where to be distilled or whatever process was used to counter poisons. All Ryndan could think about was collapsing in the cot, exhaustion too soft a word for the fatigue his body was under. His body was certainly ready to give way and only sheer determination kept him standing. He was just so weak.

So when he turned to leave the infirmary it was only natural for all of his breath to leave him at once.

For what else could he do when Cersae was standing there, staring at him horrified?


	62. Tourniquet II- Epiphany

He stalked through the camp, looking for something,  _anything_ , to distract his sudden mental imbalance. She was here, of all places. Just when he had managed to retreat into some form of solitude far enough away from everything else so he could just function, she appears, pale and small, to pull him out against his wishes.

She had gaped at him in just as much shock as he had seen her before he brushed past. He couldn't talk to her, not now. It was too soon. It was too up in the air. The roles they had played in each other's lives was about to come grinding to a halt and he couldn't have that conversation. Not yet.

Instead he busied himself in his tent, sorting mindlessly through trinkets and rations and underclothing and other necessities.

"Lieutenant-Commander!" Ryndan lifted his head to see Edrikson's unruly mop of hair peeking into the canvas, a grim smile affixed on his face.

"Come in, Edrikson. I am glad to see you well." They mutually grasped each other's forearm in a display of greeting, and uncharacteristically and without care for protocol, Ryndan pulled the boy forward to embrace him. "Very glad to see you well." They separated almost with reluctance, the sergeant unable to lift his head. "Soldier…?"

"Sorry sir," he sniffed, busying himself in righting his stance as best possible in the small enclosure. He cleared his throat, the moment past. "I'm afraid I ask to intrude on your hospitality, the tents are filling and there's not much space…" he trailed off, nervously glancing to the spare cot situated less than three feet from Ryndan's.

"Of course, settle your things down Sergeant." Ryndan returned to tidying up his pack, before settling on his bed. "What news is there from Dalaran? Did you just arrive? Wait- is Corporal Danila with you?" They were inseparable, the two of them. If he was to share a tent with anyone Ryndan would have thought to see a lanky, thin Draenei tailing the boy as per usual.

Edrikson had his back to Ryndan, pulling out bits and pieces but immediately stilled. "He's er… he's back in Dalaran, Sir. He helped me off of the battlefield when an errant Vrykul mace crushed my knee. I don't remember much about how it happened, only Danila forcibly dragging me to safety through my pain." Ryndan watched on as the young man's shoulders gained more tension as the tale unfolded. "We were set upon by another Vrykul and Danila threw me to the floor to defend us both. He was- Jason would have been  _so proud_  of him. He's always been so quiet, y'know?" Ryndan could see the white knuckles of the man as he held an unfolded blanket half out of his bag. "He put up such a fight- he was so  _bright_. But the Vrykul kicked him so hard across the face. I thought his neck had broken. Just unconscious- and there was so much blood." He had dropped to a whisper before trailing off for a few moments. "I couldn't do anything- my damned leg wouldn't let me _! I couldn't get to him!"_  Ryndan was up and pulling the weeping man to his chest, embracing him firmly for the second time in their brief reunion. Ryndan couldn't do anything else for him. He couldn't offer empty comforts and he didn't have the heart to command him to buck up. The boy needed this and Ryndan knew that being able to relate more than he would ever say to the feeling of inadequacy, of failure to one's kin and was all too well acquainted with the burden of being nothing more than a witness.

Edrikson pulled away, affronted and appalled at his behaviour, hastily wiping away at his face. "S-sorry Sir, I shouldn't have-"

"Sergeant, you are mortal. The Commander once told me that we are soldiers, we are not infallible. You could not aid your friend when you most needed to; you are allowed to be affected by that. Danila is a brave man and a good one and he clearly thinks the same of you to lay down his life. Would you not do the same?"

"In a heartbeat, Sir."

"And you would not blame him?"

"No! Of course I- oh."

"'Oh' indeed. There are some things we just cannot change, no matter how strong our intent to do so. Where is he now?"

"Dalaran- in the hospital. His skull was fractured or crushed, I don't know, they wouldn't let me see him. I- I was frantic, Sir. The thought of losing him-"he looked almost ashamed to admit it. "A nurse took pity on me and explained that his injuries are delicate, being so close to the brain or something. They have to deal with it with caution unlike how they healed my leg up." Said leg kicked awkwardly and out of frustration of its owner.

Ryndan felt displaced, looking at the man before him, Jason's death clearly haunted the pair, the both of them throwing themselves into training to not deal with it or perhaps even  _to_  deal with it. And now here, in only a mere few weeks later was Edrikson in danger of losing another member of his trio. The paladin had watched them initiate together. Edrikson was a strong devoted lad from the Stormwind sect, Danila joining later on with a different understanding of the Light due to his upbringing, but just as equally involved and dedicated. Jason had come kicking and screaming, a young street urchin caught stealing and granted a chance to change his life. Truthfully, conscription of criminals and convicts wasn't unusual for the Dawn. Many came to it through punishment or forced induction if a Dawn officer stepped forward at the trials. A number of people- outsiders mainly, thought the situation disgusting and wrong, wanting the wrong-doers to rot in jail or labour camps. But Ryndan understood. The Dawn offered them a second chance, a meal to eat, a place to sleep dry and people to care for them were many had not in the past. Most were not criminals by choice and Jason had been one of them- a scrawny fourteen year old with scruffy yellow hair and a bad attitude to boot.

Danila and Edrikson had taken him under their wing and he became an honourable, respectable man to be instrumental in their first major fight of Naxxramas.

An unusual eruption of emotion welled within Ryndan, not wanting to lose another of his boys but a deep breath settled it enough to placate the man before him.

"They will do their best with those laid up in Dalaran. They are the most professional people and if anyone can make him well, it's them. He's in the best place he can be."

"Yes, Sir."

"Good, now scrub up your face and report to the command table, they will have orders for you."

"Yes, Sir.

Ryndan made to leave to give the boy time to compose himself, but not before turning with one last thought. "Oh, and Edrikson? Jason would have been proud of you too."

* * *

It was a miracle that I wasn't working with poison, otherwise I would have killed myself several times over. My hands were shaking and while I could blatantly lie to myself and say it was the cold, I didn't have the energy to even pretend. He had stalked past me with nary a glance or warm word and left me standing looking like a fish.

I would have done the same.

Of course he blames me. What could he say to me? I had outright confessed to working on the thing and it went and killed so many of his fellow soldiers. He must think I conspired or aided them deliberately or-

"Cersae, you must focus on your work. There is too much riding on this for you to be shadowed by personal concerns."

I glanced at the owner of the voice, a bloody-smocked night elf who took up most of the space in the tent we had deemed 'The Lab'. "Sorry Bart, it's just very cold," I coughed for good measure, throwing it in for effect. Not that it was hard to produce, whatever cold or ailment I had picked up in Dalaran and my chest was constricting in this cold. I coughed again, unable to help it this time. The breath was halted by the thin mask around my face and I found myself thinking that I would be wearing out with the lab too just to stop my face from freezing.

"I know it is, but we have people who need this poison and the glands were too rare to obtain for us to waste this." He gave me a semi-understanding look over his mask and we went back to work. The discovery of Bart as my lab partner wasn't such a shock to me, not much could be after seeing Ryndan armour-clad, hard-faced and fresh from the battle field. What had unsettled me is that I didn't recognise Bart at first, not because of the floor-length healer's garb he wore, but because he had cut his hair and drawn it back into a short pony-tail. Why he was here, where he had been, why had he cut his hair- I had no idea, and now wasn't the time to ask. We had a brief, slightly awkward reunion and had to settle straight down to work.

The task of creating an anti-poison from the venin in the sacs was relatively simple for the most part; or it was to an experienced alchemist. As it stands, this is why I came, knowing only that Ryndan had survived – or wasn't on any list of the known dead yet anyway. My head had been spinning since the revelation of the events of the Wrathgate and what few notes I still possessed on the Plague serum I had poured over in an effort to see if I had fixed their weapon.

I didn't have enough data to conclude.

So when the call for chemists and brewers arrived in Dalaran I was immediately upon the opportunity to put my use to work. I had brought both of my alchemy books which outlined a variety of methods for distilling a solution. After a brief conference with Bart in our small quarters, the books lit by a couple of pitiful lanterns and whatever light decided to stream in from the open flap of the tent, we had set to work on extracting and separating.

The instruments were crude and so was I. My work with the Forsaken in New Agamand had spoiled me perhaps. There'd been skill involved but not as much as I needed for this. This required precision. That's where Bart came in.

"The reason for the sacs," he had explained when I asked a question out loud, "is that the poison is obtained from them." He took one look at my blank face before continuing patiently. "These creatures adopt poison as a weapon, yes?"

"From what I've heard."

"Then how do they prevent themselves from also being poisoned by the very toxin within their own bodies?"

"They have a different anatomy to us? Perhaps it is not so toxic to them?"

"Perhaps, but unlikely so. Any decent poison-wielder carries an amount of antidote to whatever they're using in case they accidentally inflict themselves, it's just good, professional practice. The Nerubians produced the venom naturally, biologically instead. What this means is that they also house an anti-venin. This prevents them from being poisoned by their own venom and it's this that we are attempting to draw out and break down to create a viable liquid solution that will not only be harmless to the recipients, but dispel the poison in their bodies. I don't know if we can reverse the damage done, but we can stop their organs from shutting down."

It seemed simple enough but two hours later, a few screams from the Infirmary to boot, we were perhaps only a half way done with it.

Stressed didn't even cover half of what I was undergoing at this rate.

It was a miracle that whenever my thoughts wandered to the closed off expression on Ryndan's face when he had seen me that I didn't spill the cure.

* * *

It was stupid-o-clock in the morning when we were finished. The crude, rudimentary thing we had to pass off as a cure was tested and for the last hour we had watched two individual's thrashing die down into a peaceful slumber. There was a little frothing but we weren't that concerned. For now the medical staff would keep an eye on it and Father Gustav congratulated our work. He asked us to take the report up to the command table.

I think out of the handful of us working on this, I was the only one to realise the time so I sent them packing to get some rest- for undoubtedly Bart had been up longer than I had already that day working hard- and took the long stride up towards the head of the Vanguard.

I didn't actually anticipate finding anyone there at the time of after-midnight-but-not-quite-dawn. A few sleepy guards were stationed sporadically and infrequently, but as I crested the slope I was met with empty pavilions and a couple of pathetically flickering torches.

I would have turned on the spot and marched right back down to my tent with every intentions of reporting first thing if it wasn't for the voices drifting my way from the far end.

"The Lich King reacted swiftly to the breach. Faster than I anticipated."

That voice sounded very familiar… and my curiosity was burning to solve the identity. Of course the only thing to cure the cat was satisfaction so naturally I hovered about hoping to find an answer.

"You are dealing with a being that holds within it the consciousness of the most cunning, intelligent, and ruthless individuals to ever live."

A second voice- hollow, echoing and very death-knighty responded. He too sounded terribly recognisable. The ghostly voices continued, slowly drawing closer to my position alternating between the confident and bold-sounding to the layered, dulcet tone of his companion.

"The Lich King is unlike any foe that you have ever face, Highlord." Wait- Highlord?  _Fordring_? Highlord-I'm-not-really-Father-Favian-Fordring? "Though you bested him upon the holy ground of Light's Hope Chapel, you tread now upon his domain."

Two shrouded figures drew from behind a pavilion, scarcely visible, both overlooking the encampment and fields beyond. Fordring was identifiable by the glinting armour reflecting what little light was nearby. The second was still a mystery to me.

"You cannot win. Not like this…" Mystery-man extended an arm, spreading it over in a wide sweep to accentuate his point. A half turn on his part revealed a pair of swords strapped to his back.

"What would you have me do, Darion?"

"Nothing. There is nothing that you can do while the Light binds you. It controls you wholly, shackling you to the ground with its virtues."

I was transfixed. Never had I heard someone reduce the Light to a metaphor of imprisonment, of hindrance. All my life I had heard the opposite, of its freeing nature and only desire to do good.

"Choose your words wisely, death knight. You stand amidst the company of the devoted." I wasn't surprised that all of a sudden 'Darion' had become 'death knight' especially when he'd just mocked the  _Highlord_  of the Argent  _Light-loving_  Crusade. What I was surprised at was a perceivable shaking of 'Darion's' head.

"Look upon the field, Highlord. The Lich King has halted your advance completely and won the upper hand!" I looked to the valley, despite being unable to see anything. The hour we had waited for the cure to take place on our test subject had been filled with updates from the already-residents of the Vanguard. News of the Nerubians overrunning the breach and taking advantage on the field using live soldiers had been a brief topic of conversation.

"The breach you created was sealed with Nerubian webbing almost as quickly as it was opened. Your soldiers are being used as living shields to stave off artillery fire in the Valley of Echoes, allowing the forces of the Lich King to assault your base without impediment." Darion kept calm and collected, despite the argument he was drawing forward. "The Lich King knows your boundaries, Highlord. He knows that you will not fire on your own men. Do you not understand? He  _has_  no boundaries. No rules to abide."

He was right, The Lich King had no qualms about throwing his army away if it benefitted him. Even then, he wouldn't care if it didn't. Darion's earlier quips about the Highlord being shackled by the Light and his morals were starting to make sense.

"We will do this with honour, Darion. We will not sink to the levels of the Scourge to be victorious. To do so would make us no better than the monster that we fight to destroy!" A fisted gauntlet accompanied his statement with a crash to the command table.

"Then you have lost, Highlord."

And he was right. With the restrictions self-imposed by the Light, Fordring was in fact worse than the Lich King because he was  _unable_  to let go of his men. Darion wasn't the only one to notice the futility of no artillery back up. There had been a couple of quiet comments of the same nature back in the infirmary, but these observations were hushed as if speaking against the Highlord's decision was blasphemous. And in a way, I guess, in the military, it was.

But surely the Highlord could understand the futility of the situation? If they would just use artillery to lose the few to save the many, then I wouldn't have been needed in the first place because soldiers wouldn't be out on the field becoming poisoned.

Steadily I felt my anger drawing on behalf of the few I had met with today. They were fodder, no better than living shields. One trapper who had attended the field shortly before my arrival had made comment of the amount of corpses of their own and adventurers who had come to assist since the call to arms only a few days ago.

They were more than double the Nerubian death toll.

It was wrong, and he couldn't see it, his vision too obstructed by honour and obnoxious morality. His  _honour_  was killing more than it was saving.

Belatedly I realised how my anger had held my breath and releasing it sent me into another coughing fit, one that of course drew the attention of the men I had been obviously eavesdropping on.

They were upon me quite quickly.

"You there, are you ill? How long have you been- wait. I know your face." Fordring's head entered my field of vision as I finished hacking up my guts.

"A-apologies,"  _Cough_. "I was coming to-"  _Cough_. "Coming to cure the report. No! Report the cure."

"The cure- for the poisoned?" I nodded. "That is grand news indeed. Were you one of the alchemists we sent for?"

"Yes, S-sir."

"Thank you, your hard work will not be forgotten." His heavy gauntlet landed on my shoulder and I tried not to wince.

"It's the least I could do-"

"Cersae?" Damn.

"Yes, Sir."

"My- you, you've changed a lot!" He stepped back to look me up and down. I suppose I did look different to him, given how long it'd been. I was wearing a very heavy, very thick outer robe that I made sure was an inch off the ground over my other layers and it gave the illusion of a healthy woman of my height. I wore my headscarf once more in an effort to keep the heat from my body escaping so I'm not sure how he figured me out.

"You have been well?"

Ha. Ha, ha, ha. 'Well'. Sure, that's what we'll call the last few months.

"Yes, Sir. I've h-healed." I stammered as the other figure drew behind Fordring ominously.

"And who is this to you…?" Darion asked of Fordring.

"A friend from Port Valgarde, Cersae. She's a former death knight." 'Friend' was perhaps a bit too strong of a word for what interaction we had, and it was too ill-used to me after the angered thoughts I was having about the Highlord not a few moments ago.

"'Former'? That is interesting."

"H-Hi-Highlord!" A scuttering, bespectacled elf stumbled up the top of the hill with a roll of parchment, interrupting the conversation. "S-sir! This requires- your- immediate- attention!" The poor boy was breathing heavily and hard, clearly not suited for running as he handed the message over. Fordring swept his keen eyes over the scroll swiftly, squinting in the lacklustre light.

"I must depart to attend to this. Be well, friends." He bade us farewell leaving me awkwardly with 'Darion'. I hadn't even finished forming the thought of 'I better get out of here' before he turned to me with every intention of speaking.

"He called you a 'former' death knight, what does that mean?"

I was too intimidated by his overbearing presence to tell him where to shove it. "It means that I drew away from The Lich King's power and resisted it."

"There is no resistance to Arthas' will." Well  _excuse_  me!

"I managed it," I indicated to my non-undead body, thank you very much.

"How." Very much a challenging statement rather than a question. The nerve.

"I was unschooled, unchosen in a sub-discipline as a death knight. It's been suggested that that is why I could pull away."

'Darion' was silent for so long after my answer that I thought the conversation awkwardly over but my attempt to just sidle away was cut short by his:

"You are not broken from Him. I can sense it."

_What?_

"It is weak, very. But it is there. You cannot, shy of True Death, leave His clutches." I slowly turned to him.

"But I'm mortal, I'm capable of all normal, mortal things. I eat, I require sleep and rest, I piss and sh-"

"You are dying."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You are near death. You are leaving Arthas' powers, as you say, but the closer you draw to mortality, the closer you draw to fatality. Whatever accelerated healing you have had in the past has brought you to the brink a lot sooner than you may have been. There is a taint of the Light about you. As is the way with the Light, it has not worked in your favour."

"What?"

"You are still undead, it is very faint but detectable. Your soul is stretched like a thin layer of ice between planes. It will not take much more to shatter it. You do not have long left if you wish to maintain this mortal state."

This is insane. I felt fine. I  _am_  fine. This Darion can do one if he thinks I'm going to listen to this.

"I don't have to listen to this."

"You will, I think, reassess your situation."

I left without a second glance back. That was ridiculous, stupid and impossible. I wasn't dying, I had a cold-come-cough for Light's sake. Typical for it to be blown out of proportion. My lungs were being hacked up, not actually forcibly torn from my body. It's bloody winter all year round here, of course I was going to catch a cold. If I was in any danger Lynara would have told me, he would have-

Stopped… my… healing.

My feet faltered and I stood still feeling suddenly very, very lost.

_Oh._

* * *

It was midday when the news arrived. Traffic was constantly going in and out of the Vanguard, being a bare hour away from Dalaran by flight made it easy for transporting goods and people. News was therefore always being updated. And on today's bulletin board was the updated list of the dead and missing from the Wrathgate.

Ryndan hadn't even wanted to take a glance at the board, he had avoided it for days, going so far as to do a complete circuit around the camp to avoid the inevitable but seeing people gathered around it whispering and gasping had gotten the better of him. It was listed by rank and alphabet, so the name wasn't hard to spot near the top.

Commander Nhuada Ashwood – Argent Crusade  
Status: Deceased.

* * *

Laying in his cot, arm slung up from stupidity on the field once more, Ryndan was breathing very deeply. He didn't notice the shivering. Or the chattering.

Edrikson did.

The Sergeant drew into the tent late that night, weary and exhausted having survived his second shift defending against the wave of Nerubians from the now-dubbed Scourgeholme on the other side of the breach.

Immediately depositing his helmet and wiped-down weaponry on his cot, Edrikson shook his head free with an exasperated groan, beads of sweat flying in all directions at the movement.

"Sir you're going to freeze to death if you don't cover up properly," he moved the blanket over Ryndan properly, noting the slung up arm. Neither of them said anything, the Sergeant instead returning to the motions of stripping of his armour and padding. They were carefully placed at the end of the cot, the boy taking a moment before deciding to wipe them down clean too.

 _Good man, take care of your armour and it will take care of you,_  Ryndan's father recited in his head.

The silence stretched, barely punctured by any outside noise.

"What's the difference between retribution and revenge, Sir?"

 _I don't know anymore_ , was Ryndan's first thought.

"Retribution is supposedly deserving of the act that invoked it," Ryndan instead recited, not wishing to burden his wavering subordinate. "Revenge…revenge is done out of vindictiveness, out of a sense of being wronged when there is no law or jury to say otherwise."

"And the Argent Crusade stands for retribution?"

_It used to, and so much more._

"Where is this coming from, Sergeant?"

"I heard about Commander Ashwood, Sir."

The words were twisting the knife firmly embedded in Ryndan's gut.

"I can't believe it. We've lost so many but she- she just seemed …"

"Invincible." For how else could he describe her? The woman was nearly a hundred years old and had partaken in so many battles that she could recall what history was to everyone else as valid memories.

"Yes, Sir." Edrikson threw his energy into polishing the battered breast plate resting atop his lap. It was difficult to believe that the planes of the item were smooth and shiny last week, unscarred by any battle and here they looked as old and worn as the soldier who wore it was feeling. Ryndan wasn't surprised that the tense, crawling silence was broken by an exasperated cry from the other man.

"It's not fair! She was a soldier! She should have died in battle!"

Ryndan did not attempt to calm him.

"She should have gone out in a blaze of glory, with a war cry on her tongue and her sabres in her hands, damn it!" He threw the polishing cloth to the floor.

"She didn't deserve to die in a hospital bed, crippled and lifeless by some- some  _plague_!" The breastplate fell with a loud clatter. Ryndan still did not calm him. He could not, not when the man voiced exactly how Ryndan had been feeling on the field today, laying waste to anything hostile that entered his path.

"I don't know what to do, Sir. Out there, today, after finding out about the Commander I just- I had to rip into anything and everything. They had to die because it was  _their_  fault. Was I …was I being revengeful or delivering retribution?" Wide eyes looked to Ryndan for answers that the older paladin could not provide. Poor Edrikson. Poor devout, sensitive Edrikson.

"You were carrying out your orders."

"Is that what you really think, Sir?"

"It's what I have to tell myself, Edrikson."

He understood, Ryndan could see it. It was in the crease of his brown, the straightening of his back and the tightening of his jaw. It was in the way he picked up the breastplate and cloth and kept polishing. It was in every fibre of his being- I am a soldier, I follow orders.

Now Ryndan just had to convince himself that that was enough. People died in war, that was inevitable, and more often than not, the death was unjust and unfit for them. But most of all, they were almost always undeserved.

Almost.

There was only one occasion where Ryndan hadn't felt like they didn't have death coming.

And with this, his thoughts darkened with the night.


	63. Tourniquet III- Retribution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- The pace of this chapter is a bit different. It will chop and change but that's because of the flow of the camp. There is constantly something happening, no lazy days like there was occasionally at Valgarde or Westguard or Dalaran anymore. It's odd, I know, but that's how the characters see/feel it.

There had been two more regiments. The Eighth and the Ninth platoons. Newly formed after Light's Hope, mainly comprised of fresh meat out of the barracks back on the main lands, headed by some of the veterans called back to arms after the Plaguelands campaign. The estimated number between the two was somewhere in the region of one hundred and fifty to two hundred soldiers.

And every single one of them was dead -or were very likely to be.

Fordring had kept this information under wraps, until word came to him during the night that covert scouting missions climbing a top the cliffs at the northwest corner of the Valley revealed they still saw movement from Crusade-coloured figures. Any survivors were stuck in Scourgeholme.

The First and Second, initially stationed at the Vanguard since its conception, were told to keep this information under wraps. The new knowledge of two more regiments was astounding to Ryndan to begin with, since he only knew of the first five stationed in Northrend. Six and Seven held the fort down back in the main lands but were on standby for immediate call should they be needed in the north, but to learn of two more- two  _secret_  regiments was just another ripple in the big damn lake Ryndan found himself drowning in lately.

Once word got out, the whole story unfolded around the camp. After the initial blasting through into Icecrown to create the breach, the Eighth and Ninth were sent through to meet whatever was on the other side.

They hadn't been prepared.

Scourge and Nerubians had overwhelmed them and it was thought that they were all dead- that had been six days ago, the same day as the Wrathgate.

Now news had come in of possible survivors, though how they had stayed alive in such hostile territory as the now-named Scourgeholme, Ryndan had no idea. Missions were being dispatched to those left, right and centre who had the necessary flight-training to handle a drake; something which the curiously fair stable master stated they had volunteered for.

Ryndan had not yet achieved his license, Krillik was still holding up in Dalaran until further notice, and was ineligible to go on the missions. They were not yet desperate enough to call for novices, something of which he was grateful, not feeling wholly confident in an aerial endeavour. He was, however, present at the arrival of some of the first few returning from the beyond.

The drakes had large wingspans and their unkind green-yellow colour stood out against the depleted grey skies above them. They were easy to spot flying over the breach, one or two figures held betwixt each claw. The first few rescued were incoherent, unconscious, silent or dead, as was on one occasion. Lynara had commandeered one of the drakes, the man using his time wisely in Dalaran to achieve the correct training and Ryndan was able to catch up to him later that day when the final flights had returned.

"It's ghastly, Ryndan," he said, drawing one long hand over his face. "As if the landscape wasn't harsh enough going on for crooked and sharp miles, it's now populated with crude ziggurats and necropoli and crawling with Scourge. We were lucky to even get in close enough to spy any survivors." His blond hair was unkempt and windswept, chills running through his lithe body from being in the cold air so long. Ryndan had wrapped a roughspun blanket around his shoulders, but he doubted it would do much. "They were crying, screeching almost. And there were these- these  _beasts_. Huge and hulking, with great shells- husks that just- they were  _monstrous_." The priest paused, taking shallow breaths as he stared off into a memory only known to him. "We found a few but the bodies were everywhere. Dessicated and shrivelled beneath their tabards. It's both a blessing and a curse that your colours shine brightly," he said humourlessly, half-nodding to the white-and-gold tabard belted to Ryndan's torso. "It made them easy to spot, but also it made it easy to see the state of them. Tragic. I wonder how many died only yesterday, or this morning before we left. That if we had been out there sooner we could have saved more." There was so much regret in his voice, as if he took the blow personally and this was somehow his fault.

Ryndan had sat wordlessly, absorbing the monologue's every detail. He was storing it away, locking it tightly in a dark safe to attend to later. For now, he just listened. He didn't feel sympathy or compassion for the dead. They were gone now, his empathy would get them nowhere. Instead the best he had done was help in transporting the few survivors and wounded and starving to the Infirmary for immediate attention. His shoulder wasn't fit for battle just yet after yesterday, but he couldn't have not aided lifting the litters and stretchers being filled at the stables.

"They rambled. It was difficult to hear them over the cutting winds, but they were speaking when we were flying back. 'There's hundreds, thousands, and they're all planning to attack,' one said. The other insisted we tell the Highlord straight away of an impending assault. If I hadn't seen it for my own eyes, I would have thought them exaggerating, Ryndan."

His friend didn't say much else, excusing himself to his tent for rest after a while and Ryndan bade him a hollow 'good night'. The younger elf didn't begrudge Lynara. The man had sat through their conversation with a pale, nauseating expression as if attempting to keep down food. He wasn't as finely tuned as the priest, but if the unholy presence was enough to disturb Ryndan even minorly from this distance, then Lynara would have been overcome with it flying so close to the enemy territory. And then there were the survivors' revelations…

He couldn't decide if it was better or worse that they were warned beforehand. Without the knowledge they would be unprepared, but at least he might have stood a better chance at sleeping. With the knowledge they were forewarned, but what could they do that they weren't doing already? With the Highlord stubbornly allowing the cannons and ballista to freeze… they were just as good as dead anyway.

* * *

Bart had seen him about the camp. The blond hair was hard to miss, coloured so brightly like white-gold against all the surrounding draining grey. His stride was light and short, the hem of his robes whipping about his feet sending mud flying with every deliberate step. It was a difficult thing to notice, but the priest did walk with purpose, with confidence and determination. It was just oft mistaken for a feminine quick step when in actuality the finesse he was afforded allowed him the appearance of soft and delicate while maintaining the ability to change course without slowing speed. It was a very graceful way to walk and his posture improved upon it. Even with his experience as a slight-foot, Bart was always impressed with Lynara's gait.

He had known Lynara was male upon meeting but Bart hadn't cared. In the jaws of Naxxramas, a near-dead Cersae between them, their charge had been their only priority, both taking a fond attachment to the girl to extreme lengths to save her. But as they had gravitated towards each other outside of the Scourge fortress, Bart had felt himself wondering if there was something more to be enjoyed between them, something mutual. A keen friendship and solemn understanding of a shared experience to bond them. A communal passion found in bolts of cloth and reels of thread. They offered each other both space and much needed comfort after the raid. Bart taking it upon himself to make sure the priest ate well, and Lynara lending an attentive ear to a man who spoke in quiet volumes. He had treated Bart as an equal and as a friend.

And Bart had thrown that back in his face.

Worth wasn't something the night elf was accustomed to having. Most of his adult life had been dictated by others, treating him lower than dirt and less than scum. His body was to be used for nefarious, illegal or immoral purposes and it had been the only way to survive. Assassin, thief, sellsword and whore are all titles he had owned at one point or another. Occasionally they overlapped, and other times he had equipped all four to get jobs done. Money was money and food was food. Who had he been to care about how it ended up in his pocket, or what throats he had to slit or cocks to suck to get by for just one more day? The world was not kind to those who did not possess – whether it be riches, titles, handsome spouses or a family to care for you. Bart had learned that the hard way early on. Northrend was supposed to have been his fresh start, his opportunity to remould himself into something better, to reinvent the prostitute and come out a man, but even that plan had fallen through early on, his skills as a tailor not nearly offering enough. He could have resorted to theft, but Bart had been tired of wrongdoing. At least with his backup plan there was an honesty about it- you got what you paid for, even if it did make Bart feel less than lower class once more. The only upside to the whole thing had been his choice in clientele.

Women he chose exclusively purely and simply because they were soft. Soft and curved and giggling and gentle. Few were as fiery as Luciya, and if they were, Bart oft found that they didn't need or want his services. A number were married, or courting, but seduction wasn't difficult. Women weren't so different to men in terms of needs, though they certainly had a better way of coping with their unattended desires than most of their male counterparts. And so he would worship them, indulging each of his partners into muffled whimpers of lust and pleasure until they could mewl no more. He enjoyed it, he really did. It didn't feel so much like work when he was the one in charge- only when coin was pressed into his palm was he brought back to reality. He hadn't dwelled on it, using it as a way to keep warm in the cold nights too. Valgarde had been an ideal base for so long because of the evershifting population. Very rarely did he find himself with the same partner. It was a system he had adjusted to, rebuilding a new face. More often than not he compared it to sex- one of the few things he knew how to do well. Stormwind had grown boring and eventually they just needed a way to end it. Northrend had been that chance, they changed positions and went through more pleasurable motions but in the end the results were still the same and still missing something overall, something he couldn't place.

And then after wandering this damned plane for six decades, he had happened upon a man who looked past that to find the centre without Bart even realising how many defences the priest had bypassed. He had let people in before and been burned, for what else could happen when you played with fire? But here he had come along, all light and warmth, with promises of healing and … wanting.

He had lashed out, too freshly torched from one he thought to have understood him, and his one hope, his one beacon in the underworld he had descended to had nearly snuffed out by his handling. It had made Bart sick.

So to see him now, walking tall and tiredly around the Infirmary of the Vanguard sent chills that not even this frigid air could achieve through Bart's body.

Had he left bruises? Scars? Disease? Would he flinch upon seeing him? Or run? Or curse and damn?

Or would he ignore him? He couldn't decide which the worse reaction would be.

The whole situation left Bart on edge, like a child waiting to be berated by an adult for doing something wrong but hadn't been found out yet. Just waiting, the nerves and tension eating him up every time he would turn a corner and see a flash of blond hair only to find it was a dwarf or human.

He should have found the entire situation preposterous and ridiculous. Scared of a priest? A  _sin'dorei_ , for that matter? In the past he would have laughed it off or forgotten it entirely, but Lynara was different and he didn't deserve that. He deserved to have Bart's guilt over him, to have the knowledge that Bart had suffered- was suffering- for his sins. He thought of the small, cloth bud neatly contained in a pocket of his jerkin. It rest on the right hand side, but when Bart found the time, he was going to sew a new pocket to the inside lapel – only this time it would be on the left hand side for him to place the ornament in. Twice a day- when he awoke and always last night before he closed his eyes- he would utter the words ' _salvation was created for sinners_ ' and it made the day just a little easier to get through and cope with. So he would dress and ready and work honestly.

He wore a once-white gown over his clothes for protection and donned a face mask for good measure. His newly-chopped hair was tied up tight and in no danger of slipping from its place. Even before Lynara's arrival Bart had taken these precautions, determining himself as a medic upon arrival and taking up a new identity to throw the scent off any of Solidad's eyes that might have been lurking around. Now it doubled as a disguise against the man he was unsure would welcome him in any manner of civil.

He hadn't had cause to think that anyone had tracked or found him yet, but he wasn't going to take chances nor was the stolen blade leaving his person. It wouldn't take much for someone to stumble into his tent and search his belongings while he was occupied and absent. No. Something as dangerous as this wasn't to be left unchecked. As much as he had freaked out over the damn thing, it had stayed unsettlingly quiet since his night of escape, almost as if the death of the young Kirin Tor guard was enough to slake it for the time being.

He only hoped it would remain sated until he could figure out what to do with it. Throwing it off the next coastline he came across was certainly top of his list anyhow.

But he was unable to pay it much thought as the constant stream of wounded and injured flowed in and out of the make shift hospital of the Vanguard. The stocks were well kept and up to date, a small blessing to be said for being so close to the floating capital. The laundry was done as frequently as possible, though boiling water in these conditions was damn near impossible some times. They made do and with the distraction of the poison cure, he had been kept fairly busy unable to spare much thought for the other man.

Eventually dismissed after tending the new- or old- comers from beyond the Breach, Bart was nearing the point of collapse, barely able to put one foot in front of the other as he staggered down the hill slowly to the main camp. His tent was on an aisle- or right at the end of a row, near the stone walls. He liked it, it offered some illusion of privacy, he supposed. It was far from the latrine, but if no one was looking then a quick piss in the snow wasn't going to harm anyone.

It was mundane thoughts as this that got him to the tent in one piece, passing others just as weary as they made their way out of theirs. One tent, housing a newcomer by the name of Marcus, proffered some rather lewd sounds coming from it as Bart passed by. Moans and gasps of Marcus and his lady, though hushed, weren't as quiet as they thought. Bart was almost out of earshot when a third voice- a very masculine one- strained in what could only have been the pinnacle of his participation.  _Well_ , Bart thought,  _at least three people are having a good time_. In fact, once upon another lifetime, that may very well have been Bart in there. Shaking his head with a breathy laugh, he traipsed to the end of the row. He was hoping his tent-mate, a small gnome who had a ridiculous ability to snore louder than his body should deem possible, would be absent, at least until Bart fell into a deep slumber, but upon arrival found that such a worry was unnecessary.

For Lynara was sitting on the cot that wasn't Bart's.

His feet were planted on the ground and thanks to a combination of his height and the lowness of the bed, he was allowed to rest his arms on his robed knees with ease. He gave Bart a wan smile when he looked up.

"You took your time, I didn't think you were going to stop working tonight."

A quick survey revealed none of the gnome's belongings nearby, but instead some foreign bags he had not seen before. Bart was thrown into speechlessness- something less than a few people had the ability to do. Lynara, despite his obvious exhaustion on his grey face, was sharp enough to understand why.

"You think I wouldn't recognise you after the amount of time we spent together? I'm finely attuned to the presence of many people, but there are a select few that will always stand out. I've been aware of you since I arrived, Bartheleus."

Bart could just leave, and the thought was half formed and on its way to his feet when Lynara spoke again. "I was hoping you would approach me, but I think, with hindsight, I can see why you would not." His tight smile dissolved into a sad expression.  _No, don't make that face, not to me._  "As much as I would like to have this conversation, I fear we are both too fatigued to discuss it properly so why don't we agree to talk tomorrow instead?"  _Talk? About what?_  Lynara stood and shuffled the minimal space between them. "Please, just come to bed with me-" Bart thinks he flinched first which startled Lynara, but he wasn't sure. "No! Not like that. I- neither of us are ready for that, but tonight, after this  _hellish_  week…I need you. Please."

It was a quiet plead. A confession of want without wanting and Bart was too stunned and too tired to think too hard about it. Not when he could admit just how much he needed it too. He found himself slowly nodding at the smaller man and allowed himself to be led delicately to the hard cot. Given the thin form of the blond man-  _had he lost weight?_  - and Bart's naturally lean figure, they both fit with ease on the bed laying on their sides. Bart's front was to Lynara's back and it was the most comforting warmth he had felt since leaving Dalaran- or possibly long before that. Since he had left Lynara's company. The cots were not long enough for Bart's tall figure to begin with and Lynara wasn't much shorter than him, so their knees bent, one tucked into the other as if it was the most natural thing for them to do.

He could have brought the other cot over, but truth be told, he didn't want to move. Not now when this dreamstate of his was taking full hold, for where else but in a dream could Bart find a version of this man that did not hate him upon sight?

Soft breathing turned slow and heavy and the priest was out cold. The dark elf listened to it, as rhythmic as a lullaby to him. The soft rise and fall of his ribs faintly noticeable beneath his heavy robe. They were both fully dressed, few people changed if they could help it out here, it was too cold to strip. Despite the layers, the barriers and history, Bart felt an intimacy never afforded him during any session with a client.

Daring to …dare… Bart tenderly let one arm over the waist of his companion. He curled it upwards and allowed his hand to rest near the beating chest of the man beneath him. Even without the cover he thinks they could have been warm.

Feeling sleep overwhelm him, Bart drifted his eyes closed, but not before one last prayer.

"Salvation was created for sinners."

* * *

"Is that Cersae I've seen about the camp?"

"Most likely."

"What- do you mean you haven't  _spoken_  to her?"

Ryndan said nothing.

"Since when? After the Wrathgate? No?  _Before_  the Wrathgate? Why-"

"Lynara, please. It's just not a good time. Not with the looming threat of a Scourge assault."

"Sounds like the perfect time to me."

"I forgot how damn persistent you are when well rested."

"Don't turn the conversation on me,  _you_  need to speak to her. She's floating around like a ghost or holing up in the Infirmary churning out potions."

"Good, that'll keep her busy."

"Ryndan…"

"I can't have that conversation with her, not yet."

"You mean…you mean she doesn't know?"

"How am I supposed to tell her?"

* * *

The onslaught came during the night, when the camp was at its weakest.

There were Nerubians, Scourge and Frost Wyrms.

Wave upon wave they came, lapping over what small defence was out in the Valley of the Echoes. It was an all-hands-on-deck-situation just to hold them off. Whatever sentry operation had been in place to warn of the impending attack had failed. Most likely the lookouts by The Breach had been slain before Scourgeholme had come forth. They had had no warning.

Unlit pyres were strategically placed, runners pounding through the snow with torches held a lot in an attempt to light the battlefield. Little dots of fire weaved in and out of unfathomable shadows, each person knowing their role and sole destination. Four out of the seven bonfires were lit. Four out of the seven bonfires were obliterated from screeching dragons, their corpses reanimated in a state so unholy that every flyby of one made Ryndan nauseous.

There was no other means to defend. Fordring finally called out for artillery.

A few on the field, their backs to the Vanguard, steeled themselves for their end. Whether it was by the dripping mandibles of the creatures to the forefront, or a blind turreted response from behind, a number of them made peace with their maker. Even Fordring and Entari had taken to the fight. Dalfors commanded from the back and Sunborne directed the artillery.

Ryndan was sloppy and slow, his shoulder too wounded. The day of Ashwood's death- or the announcement of it- he had come onto the field furious and unsatisfied, cutting down most in his path. The price for his undisciplined fighting had been his injury. Now, overwhelmed with more than triple what they had faced before, he was pushing past the pain, squeezing out tears that froze on his face and grunting so deeply that his armour shook.

Cannon fire blasted to the right of him, a geyser of limbs, snow and blood falling from its sudden ascent. Each pounding  _boom_  of their own artillery was accompanied with a hitched breath as they waited to see if it was aimed in their direction, if this was finally going to be it.

It never was.

The soldiers were ruthless, pushed to their limits from the past few days alone and now they were undisclosed in their methods of disposal. There was nothing graceful or artistic in their blade swings, in their shield jabs or prayers. The Crusaders were out to bodily harm these creatures, and they'd be damned if they went down without a fight. Alliance and Horde- a small number- were still fighting side-by-side, the Highlord unable to tolerate any rising tension in the camp, so if they had stayed, it was under the pretence that everyone worked together.

The freelancers came to the aid of the Crusaders and the Crusaders saved the adventurers. Cannons and holy fire and blessed prayers lit up the battlefield like a Midsummer's firework display.

When one of the three draconian abominations flying overhead went crashing into the hillside, vigour was renewed and efforts doubled. The second went down almost immediately afterwards to loud cheers.

Ryndan never saw the third. He was sent flying into the air with his enemy as a flash of white light blinded him and darkness caught him.

* * *

He awoke to pain- something he was more than accustomed to. His eyelids were too bright and the ringing in his head too loud.

A soft hand rest on his arm. He don't know how long it took to materialise from his unconscious mind, but his body soon became aware of itself again. He had adjusted to the light and found himself brave enough to open his eyes.

He couldn't see anything.

"Ryndan? Ryndan, it's all right." It was her. "Your eyes are bandaged. You've suffered some snow blindness but Lynara says you'll recover, you just need to rest." He remembers the flash. But the reason for his flinch wasn't the sudden memory. It was her hand on him, cool and- and trembling. She can't be here. Not now. He wasn't ready.

"Please leave me." His first words were croaked and stilted but the jerk of the hand meant she got the message.

He couldn't face her, not yet. It was too soon. She needed to know. But not yet.

"I will go," the hand lifted from his arm. She sounded so far away. "But Ryndan, please know how – how  _sorry_  I am for my part in all of this." The small presence left his side and he didn't hear her leave.

_No, where are you going? Come back- please!_

_I'm sorry._

* * *

"Ryndan, she knows about how close to death she is. She came to me this morning." He sounded so quiet, so distant like Cersae had but he knew the man was right next to him. "I don't know how she knows but she wanted me to confirm it. I couldn't lie to her."

"Nor can I."

"She just accepted it, or perhaps she couldn't believe it. I'm not sure. Either way it wasn't a surprise. Ryndan; her eyes-"

"Lynara, I'd rather not talk about this."

"You still have told her?"

Ryndan pressed his lips together.

"Is that why you've staved off talking to her?"

"Yes." He shifted in the cot, his upright position new for today, his body generally healed but still aching. The battle in the Valley of Echoes had ended yesterday morning and they had succeeded. The news now was sending people to Scourgeholme to take out the leaders when there was enough fit and able. He had understood that Lynara bore a sling of his own now, the man having used it on the field. Ryndan had seen him swing with an almighty force, the heavy end of the weapon crashing into a leg of an unsuspecting Nerubian, virtually disabling it before others were upon the beast ensuring its demise. Lynara had caught Ryndan looking at him in shock before quipping 'What? It's not just for decoration, you know."

He must have been too fanatic in his offence if he was now nursing a sprained arm. Most injuries were healable with the aid of the Light. Knitting and weaving muscles and skin back to full capacity was easy for most skilled wielders, but they preferred not to use it unless necessary, favouring natural recovery instead of accelerated. On the field, such feats were necessary, however, to get as many soldiers back into the fray as possible.

Here in the Infirmary, most were laid up. He wasn't severe, just caught out in a blast of friendly fire. The ringing in his ears was at a minimum but it was loud enough to be a constant source of irritation. Hearing was difficult through it, and a medic tending him told him (loudly, he suspected by the exaggerated mouth movements and hand gestures) that his right eardrum had burst. They didn't know how total the deafness was, only that time will tell if it was temporary or not. For now, Ryndan felt like he had cotton stuffed in his ear and he couldn't get it out. The bandage around his forehead held gauze against his head to catch draining pus or blood, and the whole ordeal felt uncomfortable for the soldier.

But it did distract him from the task at hand, for a while anyway. If he hadn't been wavering, then the constant source of irritation and badgering from his friend would have been useless. But Ryndan knew he was putting off the inevitable. With a rather persistence pointed look from Lynara, he succumbed.

"Very well, I will speak with her out of this hospital."

"Good."

They made small talk from then on in, their tent relatively empty with two of six beds occupied. They weren't the most severe cases and required little attention. Edrikson stopped by with a change of clothes for his superior, nodding with a small smile when Ryndan thanked him. Between himself and Lynara they managed to change his tunic but the lower half seemed out of the question. He must have landed wrong from being blown up for his hips were stiffer than a timber beam and walking was very challenging. Nature called however and he had to hobble to the water closet outside. He was annoyed by the fact that it took him better part of a quarter-hour to waddle his way through the 'streets' but he knew the more he exercised his muscles, the sooner they would loosen up.

The freezing air hit his exposed skin with a defined shock but Ryndan took small pleasure in the relief. He was momentarily amused from the steam rising from the pisspot before finishing and making a start back to his medical tent. Only he didn't make it that far. Lynara was standing with Cersae outside of it. She held several phials in a bundle in her arms as they spoke in low tones. Her back was to him but there was no doubting the small figure or that off-white headscarf. He saw Lynara's eyes flash his way but Ryndan shook his head.  _Not yet_ , he mouthed. Instead he pulled his cloak tighter and drew his hood up, turning his good ear to the pair to listen in. It was a crude tactic, but he wanted to hear her.

"-even after everything he did to me, everything he caused and my cutting off from him, is it silly of me to worry about his life? I keep looking at the noticeboard at that list of the dead and missing and finding myself glad that Mort's name isn't on it. Is that- am I being stupid about it? He made my life  _hell_ , Lynara. And now everything with the plague- I just don't know and yet I have this overwhelming feeling of relief…" She huffed loudly, irritated and stressed.

"Cersae he was your friend first and foremost. I know things were…difficult towards the end of your relationship but I think he genuinely cares for your wellbeing. He was your mentor, was he not?"

" _Some_ what. He did bad things though. Manipulated me, for one. Tried to kill Edmund, for two. Lied, cheated…. Lynara- I don't know if I  _caused_  this plague or  _furthered_  it-"she dropped her voice low, Ryndan unable to hear properly from his distance. There were others milling around, taking the closest thing to a breather they could since the battle yesterday morning, but even their subtle movements proved too loud for Ryndan to hear beyond. "-and I don't have enough data with me to conclude. It's all back at Venomspite, or that's where I last left it."

He saw out of his peripheral vision as Lynara pulled Cersae into a comforting embrace.

"What if this is all my fault? What if Ryndan never forgives me for this? So many died and- he  _knew_  them – I was just so frantic that he- and you- were amongst the dead that night in Dalaran." She wasn't crying, or sniffling. Just hollow, as if stating facts or reading from a textbook. It was a feeling he was familiar with- going through the motions, as it were. She was detached from the situation, looking at it from the outside or avoiding it altogether. She was repeating arguments and thoughts that had been following her for a long while and Ryndan felt a churn of discomfort to know that he could have put her fears to rest. But he was too scared. Too scared to talk to her. Too frightened to confess knowing how she would feel…

Coward. Never before had be had such a stain on his person. And here he was, almost brought to his knees by a young woman. No, he cannot have that. Coward was a word not to be associated with him. Not now, and not ever.

He turned, calmly and purposefully to the pair, surprising Lynara but announcing his presence to Cersae.

"Come, we have to talk."

Her eyes looked to him, dark and empty beneath her frown. The silver was nearly drained, only visibly evident around her earthen iris in a mesmerising ring. Lynara was right, now was as good a time as any.

She deposited her phials first at the appropriate workstations before walking alongside him. Lynara followed them with a sorrowed grimace before leaving them in peace. There were few places to go to offer privacy, so he just lead her to his tent where he knew Edrikson would not be back for hours, the younger man on sentry duty today.

He seated her on his cot and sat opposite.

It felt strange being so close but not touching. Their last few weeks in Dalaran had escalated to an intimate stage and now they were almost like distant acquaintances, unsure as to what the other was feeling or thinking. She was still, un-fidgeting though averting her gaze, taking in the barren tent. This wasn't good at all. The lake of bad tidings he had been drowning in was pulling him under and threatening to suffocate him, so he took one last deep breath before preparing to plunge under the surface.

"Cersae, you have to know that I – I don't blame you for the plague." Her head shot up so quickly he feared she would injure herself. "It was foolish to think that an amateur alchemist- forgive me- could singlehandedly take down years of research done by the Forsaken." He couldn't look at her, that fierce, questioning gaze. "You managed to work around it, and I think you did create a new strain, temperamental only to Vrykul, but it didn't affect your test subject at Venomspite because they were under holy protection. The Scarlet Crusade are fanatics, and managed to circumvent your plague strain through divine intervention. Had it been a normal human, the plague would have disintegrated them."

_"What?"_

"This is news that has recently come to light. A group of adventurers managed to infiltrate and dismantle the Scarlet Crusade's hold down in Dragonblight and they returned with some interesting revelations. One was their immunity through misuse of the Light." Her head tilted, mouth agape. The cogwheels were working double time as she took this in. He only wish that he could stop there. But no, she needed to be told the whole truth, even if it hurt her. She was owed that.

(1) "I spoke with Lorik, stopping over in Dalaran after- after the Undercity. He had been away, back at Port Valgarde the previous week to attend his friend, Thoralius. You may remember him. It turns out Thoralius has had visions. Visions which pertained to the history of Vrykul and the involvement of Arthas in all of this." He dared to reach out, to hold her small hands. They were frozen beneath her fingerless gloves. Her breath was coming in small pants as she took all of this in. "The Vrykul- they…they're the progenitors of the human race. Anything you made to kill Vrykul, would have been tailor made to destroy humans as well." A large frosty breath escaped her chapped lips and the shuddering breaths that followed were verging on hyperventilating. A half-formed  _what?_  was whispered but she made no other sound. Her face drew tight and disbelieving, her mouth working soundlessly to refute this.

"You didn't know- you weren't to know, Cersae. You have to believe that  _I_  know that, and that I trust you did not deliberately partake in all of this. I don't even know if the Forsaken knew about the Vrykul-human connection, or if they created another strain entirely for the Wrathgate that worked on everything. But you have to understand that  _you did not kill those people._ " Entering her personal space, leaning across their touching knees seemed to calm her a little and she nodded with a visible gulp. "You had been out of the alchemical loop for three years, and as advanced as you are, there are some things you would have forgotten or advances in the field that you would have been unawares about. You're good, Cersae, I have no doubt, but it was unfair for you to be told that you could solely avert any of this, not when it was impossible from the start."

Only one person could take the blame for making her think like that, for having her believe the deaths of so many soldiers and people rest upon her – not with all of the other deaths she had actually had a hand in involuntarily. It was very possible that they did use her strain, but Ryndan had no more information to confirm or deny this, and let it float in limbo for her to decide.

Time passed as he held her hands, his thumb stroking the chilled skin. Her metallic eyes were flitting this way and that, the thoughts she was having passing by a million-a-minute. She had –hopefully- had a huge burden taken from her in the form of this revelation. The news of the Vrykul –human relationship had astounded Ryndan, the only reason Lorik had brought it up  _after_  the Wrathgate was because he saw the connection with the plague. Without Thoralius calling for Lorik, they would be none the wiser to this information. He was grateful to see her eyes widen with thanks and letting go. He didn't want her to have all of those lives resting on her delicate shoulders.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you this before, I- it means having to tell you something else." And now was the time for  _his_  burden to increase. She managed to pause, swivelling her gaze to fall steadily onto his. The conviction in her eyes was enough to almost make him undone.

"Anything," she whispered. Or perhaps not, he wasn't sure of the volume of her voice at this particular time.

"What would you do- no. No. Let me start again."

_He drew a deep breath. Plunge into the depths we go. A coward, I am not._

"Say you knew someone. And they had known of the plague, the attack, the time and the intentions. Would you have said it was justified that they be punished for not warning anyone?"

Her nonplussed face would almost have been endearing to him had the situation not held such gravitas. The sudden change of direction of conversation had undoubtedly thrown her off. Despite the earlier revelations, she was quick to the rebound however.

"I- it depends. If they were under severe threatening not to disclose the information, then can it really be held against them?" He wanted to smile, of course she would stand up for them if she could.

_He was struggling to breathe. I am_ not _a coward._

"No, it can't. But say this person was aware. Say they did know, and were not threatened-?"

"Then I would say that they were an accomplice, yes."

"And would you also say that it would be considered righteous to kill them for not stopping it?" He knew her answer already. She wasn't a killer. Not like unforgiving him.

_The water was dragging him deeper and deeper._

" _Killing_  them? No, I don't think that would be appropriate. You know how I feel about murder, Ryndan, I don't think there's much that can justify death in any case. The deed had been done and killing them won't change anything. If anything, prolonged punishment would be more severe and deserving." She paused, pursing her lips. He would never feel them again against his after this. "I can see why people would call for blood if such a person-or people-existed, but I don't think it would achieve much. Just perhaps vengeful satiation for the sake of it." Her brow was furrowed and serious, adding to the severity of the weight of her statement. "It'd make more sense to make them see the consequences of their actions and to atone for them."

She was right, vengeance for the sake of vengeance was wrong, but too often was it disguised as retribution. If there was one thing she felt strongly about after so much senseless, forced slaughter in the past, it was death. Good girl, he thought. So willing to offer people a chance at redemption or atonement after witnessing so much ill in the world.  _She could never hate_ , he thought,  _and that's why I love her._ But he couldn't lie to her.

"Yes, I rather thought you would feel like that."

"What? Why? Ryndan, what is this about?"

_He couldn't see the light above anymore. All was dark. I. Am. Not. A. Coward._

"Let us just say I disagree with you, and will state that it was justified."

"Was? Wh- why- Ryndan, did you kill someone because they- because they knew about the Wrathgate?" She's so intelligent, so quick.

"Yes, I did." And I would do it again, even knowing you would hate me as a result.

"Who?"

_He smiled tiredly, accepting his fate and her judgement. He isn't a coward. He is a soldier. A Paladin of Retribution._

"Walden."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The quest "Anguish of NIfflevar", originating in Port Valgarde (Alliance only) from Thoralius the Wise sends you on a spiritual retreat (you get high). It is here you have visions and learn that Vrykul gave birth to deformed children which later became the human race.


	64. Tourniquet IV- The Second Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tourniquet- a device for stopping the flow of blood through a vein or artery, typically by compressing a limb with a cord or tight bandage.

 

She didn't say  _he was wrong_ ,  _he shouldn't have done that_ , and  _how could he have done such a thing?_

She didn't try to justify what he'd done _\- had it been in defence? Were you provoked? Had you mistaken him during the Undercity battle and belatedly realised?_

She didn't ask because the answer to each excuse would have been 'no'.

She didn't ask and so she didn't know.

She didn't know that Walden had found him, at the edge of the Lordaeron courtyard, the battle clashing all around as the sky fell and the earth trembled.

She didn't know that he had asked Ryndan if he could hear the music playing again, that he asked if he was going to dance to Life's tune one last time.

She didn't know that Walden had flashed his blades to take down Crusader, soldier, and rebel alike, uncaring and blind to whomever fell in front of him Whatever illness infected his mind had taken full hold. He was no longer present. . He was a madman lost, and she didn't know that.

She didn't discover that Walden rambled when Ryndan finally crossed blades with him. That he said it was  _Arthas or them, Arthas or them, Arthas or them._

_He had tried_ , he shouted _. He didn't want mass death,_ he had cried _._  He  _did_  want what he asked Cersae to do, but she had failed. The plague was completed, and it was fatal to everyone and it was Arthas or them. Arthas or the innocent.

Walden had been absent, lost in his own head as they traded strikes and swings and parries and feints. How the way he turned his broken feet this way and that seemed like a dance, a dance to music none could hear but him and how the killing blow came when Walden just stopped. He stopped,  _saw_  Ryndan and dropped his knives to the brittle ground.

The way Walden had just looked to the elf, to his dulled sword, to his furious, tear-stricken face and told him  _to do it_. Stratholme was gone, taking his family with it. Arthas was still alive and the Forsaken- he had looked dejectedly around the courtyard at the devastation and destruction- the Forsaken were doomed to extinction. Just like the Warlock had said.

_I have nothing more to live for_ , and these were the final words of William Walden before Ryndan sent his head flying. The lower jaw came clean off mid-flight, and the rest of him crumpled to the ground in one skeletal pile. It could have been euthanasia, or disguised as defensive. But it wasn't. It was deliberate. He was dead, and Ryndan felt justified.

But she didn't ask, so she didn't know this.

* * *

I can't see him anymore, my eyes- the tears- they won't stop. He's a blur in front of me, and I can't tell if that's a cruel joke or not that I can't recognise him. This man, because he- that I… he- we –

Mort was dead.

_Mortwasdead._

**Dead**.

Mort- was dead.

Gone.

Mortwasdeadand _Ryndan_ didit

Mort was dead- and Ryndan had- he – oh.  _Oh!_

My lungs! My chest- it  _hurts!_

AAAAH _!_ _Help me!_

* * *

"Help!" her body was convulsing in his arms. "HELP ME!" His feet ached pounding against the hard earth but she was seizing and choking and coughing up blood-

"Give her here!" a medic took her, settling her on the frozen ground. Her body was trembling, quaking- she's still coughing! She can't breathe! Why are her arms clawing- her legs kicking?!

"Ryndan!"

"Lynara- she- I told her and she collapsed-" Oh Holy Light please stop that unearthly noise! She was hacking- and choking and coughing- wheezing-

"Tilt her on her side, clear her airway!" Her frail body was turned away from him, jerking unnaturally, stiffly,  _wrongly_. Ryndan lost count of how many times his hands ran through his hair.

"She's turning blue!"

"No visible obstruction. An infection?"

"Nothing I recognise-!"

Even the spurts of Light a hand against her back was emitting wasn't helping.

The gagging became silent. Her body went rigid. A strained gargle left her lips.

Ryndan forgot how to breathe.

Time…it might have passed. Or it stood still. It was immortal and frozen, distorted and blurred. There was only one word that broke the trance, seconds, moments, minutes, years later.

"Dead."

His knees bore bruises later on from where he fell to the ground. His fingernails dirt-clumped from where he dragged himself to her still, freezing body. His limbs still shook hours after he turned her body to him.

He was coherent enough to see her eyes; brown, earthen and warm. Like sunlight through honey, they would have been.

And now they were just unseeing, unfocussed, staring into the lifeless sky above her.

* * *

He wasn't broken. No. Broken implies that he was whole, or fixed beforehand.

He wasn't.

Naxxramas had taken its toll, deeper than Ryndan was ever able to admit.

The nightmares, the death, the orders that lead to the demise of so many in the last chamber- that had broken him.

And she? She had taken those pieces and told him that it was all right to be like that. To feel broken- because in some way, they all had their cracks and tears and glued-back-together bits. And she had cared for him through all of that. They had stood as a crutch to each other.

But those pieces of him now lay scattered, trampled into the terrain and covered in dust and snow until he was numb.

His sword held his frustrations at bay, wearing him out with training, drilling, pushing, cutting, hurting.

He didn't respond any more. There was no point. He had killed someone else. He had broken her, she who had been so close to becoming whole. And he had tipped her over the edge instead of drawing her back from danger.

Walden's death had been the final straw in her humanity. She gave up, she had let go. It was too much for her to deal with.

And just like his old friend, he had killed her.

Taking orders was easy. Infiltrate the edge of Scourgeholme, bless the fallen, kill the Scourge agents you come across. He didn't care that the orders came from a cloaked figure. A hooded man who claimed to know Scourge tactics inside out. That this masked figure wanted them to slaughter indiscriminately, for undoubtedly their fallen regiments were being raised as they speak. Had Ryndan been of sound mind, he would have blanched and been horrified; for there was no worse crime against nature as raising the dead, especially those of the Light Orders.

Ryndan wasn't interested in the Highlord's plans to cut Scourgeholme down and rebuild upon it a new fortress- Justice Keep. He didn't care that each expedition to the undead territory brought back fewer and fewer soldiers. Detachment and disassociation was normal, Lynara had whispered to him, pale-faced. Just be careful, his brother-in-law had told him. Think of your family, he had said between deep breaths. Ryndan had not been able to comfort him in the aftermath of- of her death.

His family were so far away now that he could only consider them a dream and fantasy. A wanting and longing for home, and comfort that he could not dwell on lest he drown in the need and lose himself. No, this was better off.

And on the second day after she had –  _afterwards_ , he was told that their mission was failing. They had secured the valley, secured most of the breach, but with the Scourge's increasing numbers, they were literally just feeding the undead army. The High Priests and Underkings were too powerful, too overwhelming for them andas their ranks dwindled with each venture to the field, so the Undead armies grew. Even when the hooded man, The Ebon Watcher and his pouch of retrieved Scourgestones, declared that he was deal with this with his own methods, to save the Vanguard and to wipe away the debt to the Crusade, Ryndan felt nothing. Victory, defeat. He would take it in his stride.

And so he did when he went to take the Pinnacle.

Hordes, waves of them came up the slope. Abominations, deformations, cruel, twisted vile aberrations recently risen. They all forced on him and his band, but he was determined and death was the closest thing he felt to. The Light had all but abandoned him, the cutting chastising of his blade the only thing to rely on until victorious and done, they claimed the Pinnacle for their own and overlooked the Scourge kingdom below.

He didn't notice at first. Not until someone else cried out, pointing, looking down.

There were figures, standing abreast, walking slowly into the field from the breach. They bore no Argent colours, their dark cloaks flapping in the slicing wind. They were mobile and hostile to any and all Scourge, until they reached a central point. They spread, revealing a band of  _three_. Slowly, sheathing their weapons, did they adopt a stance. One arm each raised upwards, legs spread fast and hard, almost as if bracing themselves against the ground. Whispers around Ryndan muttered and questioned who they were and what they were doing. Until the three figures called out a chant that reverberated in a perverted dialect.

And then all hell broke loose.

Inhuman arms channelled from them, cracking out and diving towards the ground all around. New arms, crooked, bent and grotesque kept arising from the figures, plunged and heaved, uprooting –  _uprooting their soldiers._

All around Scourgeholme, in silent beckoning, in summons so desecrated, Argent ranks arose from their graves, white tabards mockingly bright. Cries and fouls and curses and screams sounded all around Ryndan as they watched these soldiers, this army made of the dead, rise and culminate and by the direction of their Light-forasken masters, the dozens-upon-dozens lay waste to the undead threat.

It took an hour at most for them to clear it, the rotted puppets overwhelming the Underkings, mowing down the High priests and breaking the necropoli to the earth. It was a fluid wave, contorting this way and that at the command of the ringmasters. Portals went up and more death knights came through until there totalled perhaps ten, by Ryndan's count. The ziggurats were destroyed and the power conduits dismantled. Scourgeholme had fallen.

It was grotesque in every sense of the word. Those bodies had not been blessed or buried or given the rites. They were desecrated and raped with this vile act of forced undeath and it chilled Ryndan to repugnance. The most unholy thing to do to a body was to use it beyond life and now the most grievous violation was bestowed upon perhaps two hundred dead and he was  _angry_.

When most of the cleanup seemed over, the remaining mass gathered in the bowels of Scourgeholme. As one, in a sick display of obedience and disregarding, the tattered bodies broke and crumpled leaving one heap of remains bundled in a disturbing open grave.

There would be no Justice Keep now. The ground was too unpure, too corrupt to ever be cleansed. The atrocity committed this day was vile and heinous and no amount of reconciliation or baptismal rites would  _ever_  rid the land of this stain. A scar more wicked and evil than anything the Scourge could create now cut through this part of Icecrown, and those people down there were to blame. They had outdone Arthas, and they had saved the Vanguard.

The conflict at this realisation was tantalising and distressing.

Horrified, the band of victors atop the Pinnacle made their way back to the camp, the spectacle now over. Shocked back to the present, Ryndan was being flooded with questions and hate and grief and-

They reached the valley, only to fall short of the Vanguard.

They were sitting on horses, skeletal and death-bound. The death knights from Scourgeholme were being disallowed back into the Argent base. A crowd, mutinous and insurgent, were calling for their blood. The traitors were silent and still, nondefensive and without excuse. It was only as Ryndan's party drew nearer the torch-bearing mob that Fordring finally came down from the encampment. Upon his horse, armour clad and an expression worthy of thunder did he bellow for calm.

" _Leave_ ," he spoke with an edge enough to make Ryndan wince. "We shall not harm you, but neither shall we suffer you here." They were no longer welcome with the Crusade, but neither would they be considered hostile. The weight of the outcome of their actions was not lost on the Highlord, but they had done evil to achieve it and that was unforgivable. Many cried injustice, declaring crime and transgression against their friends and loved ones. No one denied that. But they were to leave in peace, and that was the Highlord's final order. Disbelief and exasperation soared.

The death knights about turned, using their mounts to part the seething horde and made their way across the valley.

It was Darion Mograine, leader of the Knights of the Ebon Blade. Ryndan had seen him a few months ago- at Light's Hope Chapel. Two swords crossed his back and his armour gleaned in a black light. He led the way on a proud steed, not even acknowledging the presence of Ryndan's party as he trotted beyond them.

Two more death knights passed, two he didn't recognise, but the third he did. A twisted smirk crossed Terowin's face as he locked eyes with Ryndan and the paladin felt his blood boil. A jerk of the head from the bastard caused the elf to do a double take.

With a straight back, fitted armour and neutral expression did she ride. Those eyes, only so brown and so pure two days ago were absent. They turned to him only briefly, a bare flicker of recognition, but it was enough to strike lightning through his body. They were blue. Bluer than the ice of the purest glacier. Harsher than the winter winds that cut through him. More unfeeling that he had been for days, and they watched him for a moment until she broke contact, urging her mount forward.

That was her. The Hacker. The death knight of camp fire tales, killer of children and women and men alike. The one who would not hesitate to shred her slain like mince. The feared soldier who had resisted Arthas' to retain her humanity. She rode on a death-bound charger, away from the Vanguard, away from her grave and away from him, her hair falling freely behind her.

And it was red.

It was blood red.


	65. Interlude V- Death Knight

The void was endless. Everlasting and engulfing, swallowing you whole and fully until reality bled into infinity. Disembodied, seamless and eternal do you come into being, both aware and un-.

And there is suffering in this purgatorial state, there is  _so much suffering_. Your pain is everything and you are your pain. Agony rips you apart and miscreation forces you back together. Grievous is your torment, forever is your afterlife. Cutting flashes of lightning-blue punctuate every demise, greet every reawakening and you are haunted by those eyes.

Like a foetus you exist both everywhere and nowhere. Limbo is your season, unevolved and unmoving. Existence is irrelevant. Living is an illusion. Death is corrupted, it is no longer safe. You are nothing, you feel the universe and the cosmic energy tears you asunder. Limbs are rewoven, vessels spilled back in, mind is pieced together and the torture begins once more.

**_I can end this. I will show you._ **

The voice, it is your lifeline and the gavel marking your death. It is within you, beside you, outwith you and is you. It calls, a beacon in the anguish, and you follow it; your guiding light come to save you from this hell. You breathe a sigh of  _'yes'_  unto the world and freedom is yours.

Alone you stand, surrounded by the heavens and earth, the horizon indeterminable where they meet. The landscape is colourless and dying. An affinity is felt, your soul bleeds into it. You recognise snow.

Indefinitely you wander these planes, stretching beyond comprehension and time, your footprints never revealing your walked path. Aggressive winds, frosty and choking, cut through you as paper, it cannot harm you for you are colder. Mightier than nature, as real as the jagged thoughts spiking through your head, you tread on. Strength is returning. You are conscious. You come into being.

A figure; alone and solemn wanders before you. It is a curious image and the terrain heightens the solitude.

**_Come to me. I will show you._ **

Obeying is no question. Floating and free do you traverse the realm. The man- for it is just known who He is- never looks back. He does not notice your presence and you follow loyally, your siren in the dark. He is familiar and feared, hated and revered. The sound of each footfall echoes for an age and makes its mark in the world. His footprints are deep, they are undisturbed and they are prophesised, each step tattooed into history.

His cloak, tattered and regal, graces the ground as it drags. It picks up the snow, the chill, the importance of this non-event. Blindly you follow it over time and space.

The journey is purposeful and ongoing and this man is a guide. He will show you, you will know. The destination is near and all you can do is fall in behind the broad figure. His shoulders are burdened with great power and with great restraint does He exercise it. You are mesmerised. You are captivated.

Snow is drawn to Him, clinging magnetically, decorating Him in an aura both natural and not. His armour freezes the flakes.

After an aeon He halts. This is it, this is The Place. The termination point of your travels. He kneels and the ground shivers in anticipation.

**_You have been saved for greater destinies. I will show you._ **

You move before Him, eager and wanting. He has saved you and directed you. Now He will teach. Incorporeal and artificial you are, watching as a gauntleted hand sweeps across the ice. It is here, this is The Place. Power thrums from Him as He too recognises it. He stands. You feel the build, the crescendo is starting. A shiver becomes you and you fall into hypnosis.

A third entity joins you. It is mythical and severe in Its vessel. Incongruent in Its shape and yet perfect in Its form, Frostmourne exits Its slumber. He draws It forth, revelling in the weight of the weapon, his grip held hard and fast to contain the blade's thirst. It yearns. It wants. It needs. It  _hungers_. There is a pause, like that between breaths where you are neither alive nor dead and the heart stills, that holds the moment.

And then Frostmourne is at your throat.

The tip grazes your skin, that flesh which is now whole and made again. Even a brush with the blade is enough to encourage Death. And so you are trembling, you are feared for Frostmourne knows you are there, knows what you are and It wants  _you._

You are therefore chosen, and you are siphoned.

There is no physical likeness to the excruciation suffered by Frostmourne. No person has yet lived to compare; and so you die by Its whim. Mere instants have passed since your death, and reborn once more do you stand before Blade and Master, a pair so well complimenting that none stand in their way. Frostmourne seduces you with your own frost-captured soul as it lingers over the metal.

The snow sticks to your body.

**_Stand forth and witness my power. I will show you._ **

You gaze, caught in a trap of awe and enchantment as the dreaded sword is wielded high and struck fast into the ground.

The landscape trembles and groans. It breaks and aches as the tremors sound the earth's discord. Ice cracks in a crude web, rippling out at sharp angles from where Frostmourne holds deep. It crumbles and cracks, unable to stop this atrocity from occurring and you are blinded with wonder. Upheaval shakes the world and a new evil is birthed unto it.

She rises, her death finally at an end. Sindragosa is terrifying and grievous as she climbs from her frozen grave. The manifestation of her form was tremendous and skeletal, her very vitality pulsing mightily in her chassis. She is the embodiment of His dominion and strength. She stalks over you and you are bestowed the gift of surviving her proximity as ghastly wings spread straight and true, shadowing all who fall before her. She lords at the cliff edge, observing Icecrown in its entirety, viewing the derelict terrain.

You are struck dumb, words unable to articulate the immensity of presence you feel both before and behind you. He is proud and superior as the Broodmother takes flight in a sudden arc. Startled you rush to the icy precipice to follow only to be drawn up short by the waiting army below. There is an innumerable amount and they all follow Him.

He must be a heroic leader to have the loyalty of so many, you think, as a thousand-thousand soldiers watch the frostwyrm rush over them. Their wonder is short lived. She is horrifying and terrible as the screams she induces seamlessly harmonise with her own shrill cries. They are Turned, they are made anew, they are His and their obedience is to no other.

He is a truly great man- nay, not a man. 'Man' is too lowly, too mortal to describe Him. He is far above men, a being worthy of supreme sovereignty. Selflessly did He save you from death, kindly were you guided back to this realm by His footsteps, honestly were you shown His power and justly did He create his army equal. He is a man to be served, to be obeyed, to be loved.

He is your saviour and superior, your harbinger and protector.

**_I have shown you. Will you follow me?_ **

Your answer is a solitary one, echoing in your skull and to the edges of the skies.

_"Yes, my King."_


	66. The Argent Tournament

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- *Mutters something about artistic license* I've added two things to the Tournament grounds- a medical allotment and one other…feature, just in case you were confused. They're not there in game :)

_Argent Tournament, Icecrown.  
Six months since the Battle of the Wrathgate._

"Ms. Brasswheel, your efforts are appreciated in all aspects, but as I have told you time and time again _; the hospital is no place for greasy tools_!"

The small goblin scrunched her face as she was approached none too politely. "Oh, it's you again." She sighed indignantly as her rounder drew ever closer hell-bent on removing the woman from her corner of the tent. "Yeah, yeah, keep your dress on, I'm outta here already." Huffing and puffing accompanied her bustling as clunky metal instruments went back into their box. "Yeesh, you need a hobby toots. Yer professional bossy-ing is wearing thin, not to mention grating on my nerves  _and_  my business!"

Lynara pinched the bridge of his nose. "Ms. Brasswheel I have no intention of affecting your work however all of these mechanical things are a hygiene risk to my patients who are already vulnerable as it is in this cold. We have  _spoken_  about keeping a sterile environment before and yet you  _still_  sneak in here behind my back!"

"Well whaddya want me to do?! All this frostbite is great for business! Everyone and their brother needs a new limb and what's better than having a Bionic-Body-Specialist at hand, especially one Miss Sadie Brasswheel!" she thumped one small green hand proudly against her leather apron and titled her face as if to ask for him to defy her.

The tools were now packed away, but a dirty sheet and several (falling apart) sketchbooks still littered the small table where she had set up shop. Lynara's patience was not without limit and after the end of a too-long, too-bloody shift to be confronted with this was too much. Each answer required several deep breaths to formulate.

"Ms. Brasswheel, your services are invaluable for the patients who suffer limb-loss but is it not possible to set up your shop elsewhere and merely come in here for measurements and interviews only? Surely there is a lot open on the Tournament grounds- or can you not share with the forge masters to the north quarter?"

The little engineer looked sheepish as she unusually bowed her head, muttering quietly.

"What? What was that about blasting powder?"

"Eh, nothing! Look, dollface, I'll get outta yer pretty hair before it falls out." Everything became bundled as she folded the sheet covering the table to encompass it all in a rough, cluttering lump.

 _"Thank_ you _."_

"And I'll try not to get caught next time, later boss!" Before Lynara could retort, she scuttled out of his reach and down the tent, dodging the occupied cots swiftly. The bright pink knitted hat that covered her long ears was initially endearing to the priest when they first met, but now served as a warning sign should he spot the alarming colour out of the corner of his eye. For several weeks she continued to sneak in in an effort to expand her clientele and for several weeks had Lynara been equated to her mortal enemy each time he hounded her out. Exuding a rough sigh of his own as he sat in the no-longer-occupied chair, placing his crutch beside it.

A weariness overcame him and long, cold hands dragged over his face. His lips were chapped and it took all his will not to lick them. The temptation to also check that his hair  _wasn't_  falling out had to be suppressed violently, though it didn't stop his fingers from twitching at the thought.

His reverie was interrupted by a warm hand on his shoulder. Warm, knowing eyes greeted him as the dwarven matron smiled at him.

"I think it's time for you to get some rest, Healer Dawnstrider," her homely lilt made her words flow like music and he patted her hand fondly.

"That isn't a bad idea, Matron, perhaps I will." Groaning with effort did he pull himself up, towering over the woman he so revered. As Head-healer for the Crusade, Matron Talia served to oversee the hospital at the Tournament, delegating and running with professional practice and ease, something the freezing structures visibly benefitted from. Her hair was grey-streaked and plaited neatly behind her, those wise eyes watching him closely. "Take care, Sister, I pray that this night won't become too busy." She shared his sentiments, knowing that there were at least three units out doing reconnaissance.

Taking his crutch underarm he left with a respectful nod and followed in the same path Sadie had meandered only moments prior. The joint efforts of fatigue and chill made it difficult to traverse, slowly skirting rushing nurses and healers as they offered a brief acknowledgement to the man before hurrying onwards. Overworked, overtired and outnumbered, Lynara admired the ethic of those he stood side by side with on a day to day basis. Many patients waved or offered small smiles, Lynara taking the brief freedom-from-duty to talk with a couple of them on his way out.

A recent amputee told him of her letter received that day that recounted the tales of her ever-growing children at home. She excitedly waved with her one good hand about how she would see them soon and oh, how much they must have changed! He replied with equal love in his voice as memorised stories of his recently-born nephew spilled from his lips in undisguised joy. Many anecdotes of children, their antics and bad habits of growing too fast passed between the two before Lynara decided that she needed rest. With a blessing and a touch of her deformed arm did he leave her, his fatigue seeming lighter.

He passed the bed of a young orc, so new to the field and desperate to prove himself like fellow adventurers, to examine his medical notes. The boy in question slept noisily, grunting snores vibrating the plain cot upon which his broken body rest and Lynara smiled in fondness. Amongst the hustle and bustle of the ever-busy ward, his snores went unnoticed and it was a miracle anyone slept through the muted din of the tournament. His third trip in the post-operation tent in a four-week tenure had made the orc as frequent a figure as any of the medical staff around. Bandages and thick blankets couldn't hide the air of innocence or eagerness that followed him. Lynara knew that he would be awake tomorrow with a glint in his eye, a quip on his tongue and a wink for the nurses before leaving with promises on the staff's behalf to hold a bed for him. Scanning the various scrawls, the priest replaced the clipboard satisfied with the progress and sighed in resignation. The man was sure enough going to be back in here in a few days after his next mission, his recklessness making for hilarious story-telling some shifts.

Towards the end, on a lone, untended cot lay a soul-shaped sheet. Lynara stood at the foot of the bed to offer the unmoving contours their second prayer that night.

He managed to mind stepping in the dark puddles stained into the floorboards.

Twice before he had reached the exit of the long pavilion had someone stumbled into the crutch or himself, knocking his balance and shooting pain up his thigh and hip. Only with great practice did he refrain from cursing out loud. Arriving at the exit provided two things; freedom and a glacial wind. Taking a moment to sort his robes and don his thick fur cloak, Lynara was prevented from leaving when a young paladin entered nursing an obviously injured arm. The sin'dorei looked around worriedly for aid, not paying Lynara any attention as his medical attire was not visible. Briefly recalling just how busy the hospital was, he stopped himself from sighing and gestured her to him.

Within a half hour he had managed to set the bone, learning that she had been thrown from her mount practising the joust. He was too drained to invoke The Light and told her instead that natural healing would benefit her in the long run- such was the new practice instilled after too many healers dropped like flies after long shifts, unable to recover for their next. In native tongue too infrequently used, he distracted her throughout the procedure, asking after her family, friends and their homeland. She had gritted through the discomfort, her armour tenderly removed and shoulder bared to the frigid air as he worked swiftly. With instruction to rest and attend the hospital every day for daily pain-killing remedies, he stood to bid her a good day and was thanked in return. With a stretch and a strain did Lynara almost make it out unnoticed- _almost_. Nearly at the ward exit, he was greeted by a stout Matron, hands-on-hips and a raised eyebrow that clearly said "what are you still doing here?"

With an embarrassed chuckle, Lynara left limping and finally making his way onto the tournament grounds proper.

With one shivering hand, the hood was drawn fast over his head, not wishing to tempt fate after Sadie's comment on his hair but also to protect his ears from the biting cold. A rough estimate put the time nearing midnight though with the ever stormy skies and constant business the tournament provided it was easy to maintain the illusion of being stuck in the same hour of the day. He had once remarked to Bartheleus that not even Dalaran had seemed so lively.

His misplaced scarf was lamented and mourned as his nose reacted to the dropping temperature, Lynara already missing the meagre heat generated by a pavilion full of busy people. With great care and a slowed pace did he navigate the rough road through the medical areas. The post-op tent was furthest to the back of their cul-de-sac, the more urgent services closer to the tournament for ease of access. He drew up alongside the Triage tent, ignoring the protesting wails and whimpers that could belong to either staff or patient. The Operating Tent loomed past him as he hobbled, the air noticeably colder in its shadow. The occupants of either tents were frequently too low on flesh and too high on bone, their minds too high in panic and too low in reason.

The designated hospital-only mess tent was next, the overwhelming aroma of heat and stew wafting through the flaps and the sound of timid laughter accompanied it. Lynara had already decided he wasn't hungry tonight and vacated the medical lot, thoughts of bread too hard and soup too solid not enough to entice him to eat.

Tournament ground keepers were in full swing tonight, sweeping away as much of the snow as possible on their man made roads. The blizzard that hit the grounds two days ago had certainly left its mark and combined efforts had barely managed to keep the hospital up and running. Scrounged candles and torches had to be pilfered from other sections to accommodate the damage sustained and for the time being the shade of the incomplete cross-shaped stadium seemed more ominous than ever.

The treacherous road lead him down to the tournament proper, sidling between the champion's ring and champion's pavilion. Despite the hour, contestants and aspirants alike battled it out to his right, jousting loudly and victoriously. The banners were high and flying in the cutting breeze, the sea air never letting up, while barding and racial colours rippled at the feet of the charging steeds. Dust was kicked up, lost to the mistrals gathering. A valiant claimed victory and congratulatory cheers and disappointed groans echoed in tandem. To the south of the ring, in view of the entire unfinished coliseum, is where the scaffold was.

There were a group of about six standing on the wooden structure, casually watching the mounted action. Each had a bottle, possibly of ale or beer as they cheered and yelled at the ongoings of the ring. An aspirant made a decent hit as the champion stumbled to regain balance and loud cries of encouragement echoed from the stands. For all intents and purposes, they looked highly innocent where they stood, milling with their friends, enjoying the advantageous view offered by the platform, relaxing on their rare downtime. It was a sight commonly found at any given theatrical event. But had the looped ropes been dangling over the wooden beams above, then innocent is the last thing they would have been.

A slow drift along the stables didn't reveal anyone more than familiar and so he detoured through the tunnel to the north-west quarter of the grounds, refusing to admit the reason why he was doing so. A brighter world materialised before him as purple hues and red glints filled his eyes rejecting the bleakness of their harsh environment. Amber sparks and cold, black hammers-on-metal created a beating marriage of rhythm. Clothes swayed and chimes rattled in accompaniment as murmurs of chatter and laughter completed the ensemble.

But he couldn't see Bartheleus.

With chopped hair and a false name did he normally work in the tailoring booths, cutting cloth and aligning templates, working hard to keep the tournament-goers clothed and warm. It was only three weeks ago did Lynara figure out that the older elf deliberately line up his work pattern to overlap with his on the off chance Lynara would catch him, and now Lynara made a point of bypassing the tent in the most roundabout way possible back to his own sleeping quarters just to cherish that.

If it was busy, then a shared look or nod was enough. It was just enough to reassure them, to allow Lynara a glance at something solid and real and good in his life which on most days, after some difficult hours at the hospital, did Lynara secretly rely on very heavily. He knew, he  _knew_  that such a thing should not be coveted, for he was to discipline himself in charity and poverty. But despite his two decades of priesthood, he just desired this one, selfish thing. This…  _connection_  he held with someone else. It was deep and new and breathless and unstable, but also his. No one else could see it or take it away from him to sell it or deprive him of it. Light knows he just wanted this  _one_  feeling to cling to some days just to make it through.

Which is why it was a sore disappointment not to find the object of his musings at his usual post, straight-backed, deep in thought and agile hands knitting swiftly.

Polite smiles and words of greeting did he give to the traders as he hobbled by the tent, his fingers red with cold now where they necessarily remained exposed as the crutch they gripped moved in stepping arcs. He hadn't made it five yards before a serious voice stopped him.

"You look lost, High Healer."

The relief was enough to ignore the pain in his hand as he turned to face his friend. His mouth was straight and serious, lips thin but his eyes glinted with amusement.

"Indeed, I was seeking something in particular normally found in this general vicinity, but it appeared to have wandered off."

"Quite? Well that is inconvenient. Perhaps you should wait to see if this 'something' of yours make a reappearance. Come sit at my table, I will not have a crippled man standing." An arm was held out and Lynara allowed himself to be escorted to the neatly organised table, revelling in the progress made where Bartheleus voluntarily offered a moment of touch between them. A chest of drawers and deep trunk cornered it off, filled with various tools, threads, measures, fabrics and other devices necessary for a tailor to work competently. The table was artfully wedged between the stone walls of the coliseum and the main trading tents for tailors, allowing it to break most of the sea wind threatening to freeze them, something of which Lynara was immensely grateful for.

"I'm not crippled," Lynara mumbled, allowing himself to be fussed over as Bart took the crutch, lay a fur blanket on his lap and poured from a nearby steaming teapot. Without word, the tailor pushed a cup – of what Lynara hoped was tea- towards him. "I'm temporarily inconvenienced." Happy that Lynara was settled, Bartheleus joined him, adjusting his own fur blanket around his legs.

"I beg your pardon,  _temporarily inconvenienced_ ," he murmured into his cup with a dark chuckle. It was a common thing for them to do, make light of the injury. Especially since Lynara already knew that he couldn't fix this one, not with the damage that had been caused.

Instead Lynara asked a very serious question that had been silently plaguing him, entrusting his friend to answer truthfully on the heavy subject. "Do you think my hair will fall out in this weather?"

"No, of course not."

"What if it goes grey?"

"Lynara, you won't  _let_  it go grey. You would determinedly grow it white so that it is indistinguishable from your already bright hair. I assure you, nothing will happen to it."

The priest huffed, happy at the answer but irked at the jest.

Bartheleus, ever quick to move on from the topic, took interest elsewhere to save Lynara's lingering mood.

"Was today's intake any-  _where_  are your gloves?" The priest was demanded of, grimacing and reaching for his cup in front of the too observant kaldorei. His fingers wrapped around the hot mug and burned harshly for the fingers were so cold.

Admonished with a look, Lynara confessed upright. "Misplaced, alongside my scarf it seems."

"You only purchased those gloves two weeks ago."

"Yes, I know."

There was a tense silence as they regarded each other before Bartheleus gracefully rose and moved to his chest of drawers. Unable to twist around to nosey at what he was doing, Lynara took the moment to imbibe liquid heat, overjoyed as it cascaded down into his gullet, warming his belly immediately and burning his chest. He was startled when a  _thwump_  landed something in front of him.

"There. Take those, it's a spare pair lying around. You'd be a poor example of a healer if your hands fell off."

"I could always get new ones from Sadie."

"No, absolutely not. None of your patients would take you seriously." As Bartheleus reseated himself, Lynara observed the dark gloves with reverence. Only belatedly did he fumble under his cloak and in his robes for his purse. He was refused before he even started counting coin.

"No need, they're just spare."

Lynara knew better than to question his decision now and thanked him quietly, returning to admiring the fine craftsmanship.

He wasn't without his own observation, noting that the kaldorei watched him out of the corner of his eye. "These are brilliant quality. Is this your work?" Bartheleus nodded, still indulging in his tea and watching the populace down the trading boulevard. He tugged the gloves on. They were soft and padded, insulating his pale digits as already the first tingling of heat and feeling was felt. He flexed and felt no difficulties with movement, no resistance to hinder his work. "These are a perfect fit too, thank you- wait, is this-? This is medical stitching," Lynara claimed, examining the needlework. Several gloves had passed into his care during his time at the tournament and he admired all of his clothing individually to respect the maker, so he knew when something was different. He looked to Bartheleus only to find an avoided gaze, deliberately turning his face away.

_Oh._

"Did you make these for me, perhaps?"

The darker elf didn't answer, preferring to draw noisily from his cup. Lynara smiled into his collar. Wrapping his prickling and gloved hands around the cup, Lynara drank deeply, grateful and content. Their banter was one of the aspects he coveted in their friendship, second only to the priority they placed each other with when it came to taking care of the other. Their silent understanding of their situation was remarkable and Lynara was ever grateful to know the man, even with shaky beginnings.

Their peace was short and sweet, spent watching various combatants size each other up in mock sparring at the arenas. The pair also had a hard time trying not to laugh at trainees unable to get a hands on their unwieldy mounts as they adjusted to the weight of the jousting lance. The entire setup of the tournament in Icecrown seemed ludicrous to Lynara in design, but it granted him the opportunity to be in the hub of where he was needed most. The fact that he was also nearby to some of his closest friends was simply besides the fact, he told himself.

Soon enough, Bartheleus was called back to work and with a quirk of the lips bade him goodnight. Feeling recharged and suitably rested, the priest was able to gather the energy and strength to leave his side and traverse around the back of the unfinished stadium. Piles upon piles of cut stone, sawn lumber and boxed goods still littered the grounds, always being shifted by someone or other and it required great navigation on Lynara's part to circumvent. The large carts, huffed about by several kodo when they had first arrived, lay unattended beside rough practice rings, the goods which they transported still cloth covered and exposed to the elements.

Peons, sweating and hot in their many layers lounged nearby as they broke from their labour that night. Laughter and jibes traded between the various littered groups, their unity in the hatred of the construction of the amphitheatre transcending the racial divide suffered since six months ago.

He offered them a wave, recognising many of them who had come to the hospital for tool-related injuries or over-straining of their bodies. Several cheered at him in recognition, warming him with a wave of friendship.

"Are you well Father? Do you need a hand?" called the biggest worker, a tawny-spotted tauren named Mo'he. She was midway eating a meagre meal, as were they all he noted, but still stopped to inquire after him. The habit of calling him 'Father' had originated from a mislabelling from a Light-practising woman one night in the medical unit and it had since spread around the camp. He didn't bother correcting them nowadays.

"I am well, thank you!" he cried back, "And you? Are you all hard at work or hardly working?" A collective laughter was his answer and a couple of bread bits arced his way. "That's what I thought! Take care, I don't want to see any of you anytime soon, hear me?"

A mock-injured chorus of "That's not a nice thing to say, Father!" and "You're only saying that!" sounded from the group and Lynara walked past them with a grin as wide as he could manage. The outdoor soup kitchen was in full swing as he passed, never resting throughout day and night as many bustled about to feed the tournament goers. Two other kitchens were imposed on the respective Alliance and Horde grounds for those less inclined to share space civilly, the fourth situated by the hospital.

The cliffs overlooking the sea gave no pause to the squalls threatening them on a daily basis and with as swift a speed as he could manage, Lynara limped into the south-east corner of the tournament to a more secluded area to escape the worst exposure.

Another colourful ring complete with native banners and iron-clad champions stood strong against the chilled air currents. There was a clear battle of wills going on in the ring with many watching on with fanaticism unrivalled by any sport Lynara had seen. Crude wooden stands allowed for an audience to collect and huddle, sharing warmth, passion and fun overlooking the Alliance arena.

The gnomish champion, swift on a mecha-strider, artfully avoided the novice's charge and delivered a sharp prod into his thigh thus startling and unbalancing the contender. Not leaving an open, the champion took the chance to bump the undirected horse causing not only a pained yelp but a 'thump' as the aspirant landed face-first into the dirt. Raucous cackling and laughter bellowed from the seats as the young challenger drew up to his feet in pain and embarrassment, tenderly shaking the hand of the champion and leading his mount out of the ring. Several Crusaders and onlookers came forth to pat him on the back, laughing at his moment but also offering encouraging words of things he had done right.

"It was going well, until he decided he wanted to show off for his lady-friend there." Lynara turned to smile at Ryndan, seemingly on peace-keeping duty as his full armour regalia suggested.

"Young love makes people blind to the world's danger," the priest recited. Ryndan threw his head back and laughed.

"Yes it seems so, and now he'll have the bruises to prove it," he chortled, nodding to the gathered group still comforting the aspirant. Antics and jokes alike were being shared among the few in an attempt to cheer him up and Lynara chuckled. "Give me a moment and I'll walk with you to your tent," Ryndan said before making his way to a crimson-clad ranger nearby. The sin'dorei in question not only acknowledged him but smiled brightly enough to catch Lynara's interest. The spoke in quiet tones, the Crusader lowering his head so the woman could speak directly into his good ear. Once they parted, Ryndan jogged back over, his muted silver-and-gold armour rattling as he did so. Together they passed the Alliance pavilion and arranged themselves. Ryndan always stood with his companions on his left, his hearing in his right ear never haven recovered from the cannon fire at the Argent Vanguard.

Idly travelling they spoke of their days, Ryndan only having been awake for four hours and on duty for two with another ten to go. His recent enforced night shifts had him stretched and tired but he doubted he could find anyone in this blasted wasteland who wasn't struggling in some way. Lynara recounted his time in the medical facilities today, glossing over the gorier details in favour of recovery stories, or people going home to loved ones. By unspoken rule they didn't talk about their own families unless letters arrived where they would sit together at breakfast and compare stories of their shared nephew. Ryndan laughed as Lynara told him of Sadie's persistence to gain permanent residence in the hospital, calling her 'feisty' and 'determined'. Lynara couldn't help but agree, wincing at their next battle. They continued like this, swapping tales of their days until the aspirant's ring was far behind them.

As soon as they were out of earshot of the lady, the priest prodded with poorly contained curiosity. "The ranger appeared happy at your company, and judging by the lingering smile on your smug face, I'd say the same."

"Ranger Brighthallow? Yes, she's an amazing archer, can shoot a bullseye on one of those targets from several feet further than I've ever witnessed anyone do. She's also incredibly able at keeping violence to a minimum. In fact, two weeks ago she-"

"Ryndan, I wasn't doubting her abilities as a Ranger or peacekeeper, but rather pointing out her subtle interest in  _you_  and your rather obvious interest in  _her_." Ryndan gave him a boyish look, not containing the smile.

"Yes, she is rather intriguing. I look forward to our shifts together. Her laugh is a blessing but her humour is rather wicked. Her stories of her career have truly made some nights bearable."

Lynara beamed. Ryndan had a faraway look in his eyes that wasn't overshadowed by doubt, fear or remembrance for once. Their slow pace for Lynara's sake was fine, but the priest knew that were they walking faster then his friend might be practically skipping or bouncing with a spring in his step. The haggard face, complete with unshaven stubble and grey pallour, actually looked healthy with a serene look. But there was one thing he was concerned about.

"I couldn't help but notice the wedding band she wore."

Ryndan glanced at him, coming out of his daydream. Defences were immediately up in his eyes, but his tone remained light. "Ah yes. Her husband is situated in Hillsbrad I think, at last recall. Gendred Brighthallow- I think he was at our siblings' wedding but I cannot recall. Good man by reputation anyway."

"And this is of no concern to you?" For Lynara  _was_  rather concerned. He had not performed marital rituals before but he understood the sanctity of marriage both in and outwith the Light's teachings, and breaking them directly or indirectly was sacrilegious.

"No, it isn't. I'm not looking to marry her Lynara, nor is she looking for that in … anyone else here. I doubt many 'romances' here are in fact as such. Courting isn't something we're looking to do, I just enjoy her company and her mine, I believe. She is open about her marriage and frequently talks about her husband with love and respect."

"And if she wants…more?" Playing the advocate to the opposition, Lynara could not help but worry about his friend.

"Then that is something I'll decide on my own. This is  _Icecrown,_ Lynara. If there is anything we have learned in this blasted place these past months it is that there is no room for morality and justice to rule." He said, ending the discussion. They skirted past more aspirants and wannabe valiants. Some carried lances, others led mounts or carried broken armour. Some sported bloodied noses or nursed minor injuries from where they tried to get to grips with the strange sport. Despite the oddity of deliberately charging and beating each other up, Lynara had to say that the morale at the tournament was none too lacking for it. He had been present when Ryndan had rose to the title of valiant himself, on the route to championship before he threw in the towel in rebellion and it wasn't the first of his behaviour that Lynara had secretly questioned, not since his Commanding Officer had him demoted a few weeks ago.

Lynara couldn't wrap his head around the situation. Mutual companionship should be built with respect and perhaps more than platonic feelings and Ryndan was talking about the possibility of going further than harmless flirting with a married woman and every fibre of Lynara rebelled against this idea. His instinct to cast judgement not only on him but on Ranger Brighthallow also flared to Lynara's internal horror and he berated himself. Decidedly, he kept comment on the matter to himself, already realising that Ryndan sensed his disapproval and two feelings waged war within the priest's mind. Let Ryndan be happy and enjoy this; something he hadn't done in a long time, or badger the man until their friendship is risked and something snaps.

"Are those new gloves?" Lynara recognised a change of topic and the olive branch offered and so he took it without hesitation, mind made up. They were both consenting adults and it was not his place to preach, rather to listen and guide and if Ryndan needed him there for anything, then there is where he would be.

"Yes, I had to collect new ones from the tailoring area for my others and my scarf have disappeared." They admired the gloves, both hands now clasped firmly around the tall, wooden crutch keeping Lynara mobile. Despite reupholstering the padding that went under his arm, the priest was struggling with chaffing through his layers and winced with every step. It was worse when he was exhausted, like now, leaning nearly all of his weight on the damned thing and requiring two hands to steady it.

"Tailoring hmm? That wouldn't have something to do with a certain dark-haired, tall kaldorei would it now?" Ryndan teased, slipping out of common tongue and into their own. They rounded the most eastern point of the cross-shaped stadium, stairs still being installed to the higher platforms, and walked towards the shared sleeping tents. Lynara sacrificed a step and tapped Ryndan with his crutch, clanking the legplates.

"Quiet yourself of such nonsense," Lynara retorted, exercising his Thalassian for the second time in an hour.

Ryndan laughed again. "I do wish you would avail yourself of those vows sometimes and just stop dancing around each other. It's sickening to watch sometimes."

"What? Ryndan Firesworn you stop that this instance. What blasphemy. I am devoted to my profession and The Light. Bartheleus' and my friendship is in a comfortable place and we do not seek to jeopardise that." Lynara had not told anyone of Dalaran, not even Ryndan. Bartheleus slowly-easing guilt and ongoing penance was enough for them both and the two men merely wished to move past the memory.

"As am I, and yet I am not bound by such restrictions. You will only live once, Lynara, do not waste that in the service of something like The Light."

"It is not that simple when it comes to people."

"No, it isn't, is it?" Ryndan gave Lynara a pointed look and the older elf knew he had been called out on his earlier judgement. Admitting to his folly, he grimaced.

"Ryndan, I apologise. It is not my place to criticise yours- or Ranger Brighthallow's- actions. I was just concerned for you."

"For my soul, you mean? For I might sin and she and be cursed into eternal damnation?"

Flustered at the prospect, the priest scrambled to explain himself. "Well, not quite that level of concern, more an earthly –"

Ryndan rest a hand on his cloaked shoulder, "Lynara, it is well. Do not work yourself up over it for I tease you, my friend."

Taken by surprise, Lynara gaped at his friend, eyeing a spark of mischief in his green eyes. "You- I- Oh  _Ryndan_ ," he laughed. They had arrived at Lynara's tent, very close to the front of the cluster of many struck by the tournament grounds as per tournament regulation for healers in case of emergency. More sleeping quarters were available near the medical hospital but Lynara had passed in favour of peace away from the screams.

About to comment further with no doubt more teasing, Ryndan was cut short when a younger soldier ran up the slippery street to grab him.

"Captain Firesworn, you must come quick- a fight; they're really tearing into each other!" he cried breathlessly. Stance went ramrod-straight as Ryndan morphed into a soldier in front of Lynara's eyes. They shared a look, and he clapped his brother's shoulder in silent understanding before breaking off into a run with the boy demanding more information. All Lynara heard was 'Forsaken' and 'four of them'.

Lynara sighed and stretched his knotted back. His shoulders ached with exertion over his extended journey to his hard cot. With one last look at the Captain's retreating form, Lynara turned in. No rest for the wicked, he thought. Ducking under the tent cover, the priest made to ready for bed confident that tomorrow would be another day bringing more of the same, if not worse.

With Ryndan's words still echoing freshly in his mind and the memories of that day's shift decorating his once-clean medical robes, Lynara's prayers were half-hearted that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- Sorry for the delay, the Icecrown arc is proving difficult to organise but I think I'm there with the overall structure of it. It's only been a couple of weeks but I feel rusty! After such a long time lapse between chapters I thought a catchup narration would be best, to give you an idea as to what's going on with the guys. Fear not, I will elaborate on some of the more obvious changes they have undergone and let you know what's happened in the last six months. All in due course!
> 
> Also, a shout out to my new beta Buglet for effectively saving the story by letting me splurge my notes onto him at all hours of the day before I burst with too many ideas. Thanks ol' chap.


	67. The Mess Tent

There was something rather…  _grey_  and  _meagre_  wobbling in his bowl and Ryndan wasn't entirely sure it was edible. Any movement and his meal danced in ways food simply should not. What little appetite he possessed was slowly shrivelling up.

" _What_  is this?" he asked, lifting his eyes from the concoction being served to him.

"Slush, with a side order of grit and if you're lucky some leftovers from the horses' dinner."

"But we had that yesterday."

"This is the surplus from yesterday, for some reason the demand just wasn't that high."

"I  _cannot_  fathom why."

"I know! A pinch of salt here, some rosemary and thyme there and voila, an exquisite cuisine suitable of being served at any fine Dalaran dining establishment."

Ryndan raised his eyebrows high at the old cook. "Bakerson, not even  _your_  admirable culinary talents could salvage the slop served here at the tournament."

He sighed, "Alas Captain, I fear you are correct. My talents are sorely wasted in this barren mess tent- what  _is_  a simple breadmaker to do?!"

Ryndan chuckled. "Despair like the rest of us I daresay. Pardon me, I must sit before this 'food' gets any colder."

"Right you are, Sir. Enjoy your slop-a-la-Icecrown!"

Taking his measly bowl and bread to a bench, Ryndan navigated the crooked tables and sat aside Edrikson, the now-silent Danila and two brothers in their regiment.

"G'd evenin' Cap'n, great weather we're havin', innit?" Eoin directed to him, his words muffled by the goblet attached to the black-bearded dwarf's face. To demonstrate, the wind shook the mess tent with a bruising quake. A particularly loud gale fluttered the entrance flaps and upset the closest patrons.

"Yes indeed, I was thinking of hanging out my underwear to dry when I return to my tent, actually."

Eoin choked causing a barking Henrik to smack his back. Ryndan chuckled at the two siblings as he contemplated eating his 'dinner'. What could possible serve as his death sentence was postponed from being consumed by the sergeant on his left.

"You should know by now not to talk with your mouth full," Edrikson addressed Eoin calmly, also watching the energetic pair. "Good evening, Captain."

"Edrikson. Danila." He added, not wanting to forget the mute draenei. "How was the afternoon shift?"

"Standard, without complaint." Edrikson ate some more stew. His bowl was already mostly empty, the boy could stomach near  _anything_. "The sooner they get the stadium built the better because then something might actually happen." Very rare did the devout man complain. ." Prompt and clean-cut as always, Edrikson was always by the book and the perfect image of a soldier, Ryndan thought. Something was upsetting him.

"Don't disparage the peacetime, Sergeant. When it is over you never know when the next time you will see it is."

"Quite true, Sir." He nodded solemnly. "Well, anyway, it was textbook, nothing to report. Just more casualties coming in from the Hrothgar island up north. That means Danila here got more excitement than I did!" The curly-haired Crusader grinned at his friend. Danila, with his hood drawn up over his scarred head, seemed oblivious that the conversation had shifted to him. The contents of his bowl was of the most import to the young paladin and mechanically the spoon went from food to mouth and back again. Ryndan glanced at Edrikson in time to see the smile fall from his face. Ah, the source of his troubles.

Edrikson watched his saviour and ward closely, dropping to a whisper. "I think Danila's having an off-day today, Sir. You'll have to pardon him. He didn't even light the fire stove in the tent this morning when he woke up. He  _always_  does that. You  _know_  how he likes his routine. "

"He volunteers at the hospital," Ryndan answered, moving his lumpy gravy around with his cutlery. "I'm not surprised if he's feeling down sometimes. They say that a hospital alone shows the true face of what war is, he has probably seen worse than you or I have ever experienced these last few months."

" _And_  he cannot communicate what he feels." Edrikson's grip on his own spoon tightened noticeably. Ryndan hesitated, the guilt Edrikson felt over Danila never truly disappeared. He took it upon himself to safeguard the draenei upon his return to 'active' duty but it was becoming clearer with every day that passes that Danila would never fully recover. He felt for the pair. The trio was now two-thirds ghost.

"Hey fellas, Captain—" Ryndan looked up to find Corporal Chambers standing at the foot of their table. "I've to inform you that the debriefing has been moved to tonight," she reported.

"Tonight?" Henrik cried.

"Aye, the boss wants us all at the planning tent after the next shift-change."

"Naw, tha's no right! I got a date wi' that fair lassie oot at the stables!" Eoin wailed. His blond-haired brother patted him comfortingly.

"Thank you, Corporal. We will be there," Ryndan dismissed her. With a quick salute she scurried off to other tables.

"Och, why? The night o' all nights,  _why?_ Can I no just claim I'm ill or down wi' a fever?"

"Tough luck, Henrik. Iskra wants the whole regiment there," Edrikson interjected stiffly, clearly indicating that he held no sympathy for the dwarf. All Work and No Play was his motto, Ryndan had heard.

"That woman is the bane o' mah life sometimes. She disnae want us tae socialise. It's aw work, work, work. A man's gotta live! He's got  _needs_!"

"You could always ask Iskra to handle those… _needs_."

"'Ere I thought you were the cleverer of the two o' us, Henrik. Whit would Maw say?"

"'Brush yer teeth, comb yer beard and back afore midnight' probably."

Ryndan snorted, imagining Talia doing  _exactly_  that.

"Yer off yer rocker. Whit dae you know anyway? Agnus'll ne'er go oot wi' me now."

"Eoin, just tell Agnus tha' you'll see her another night."

"I've already postponed it once! Was supposed tae have been last week but I was stuck in the outhouse for hours after eatin' that weird broth."

"Oh lovely, just what I wanted to hear at the table," Edrikson complained, pushing his nearly-emptied bowl away.

"I say we go on strike—"

Henrik sighed tiredly. "Eoin-"

"No, listen. We go on strike 'n' mebe we'll get a new officer in charge. Mebe they'll bump the Cap'n here back up!" One thick hand waved in the Captain's direction.

Ryndan's ears twitched. "That's enough, Cadet. I'll have no talk of mutiny at the dinner table," he said. "It's rude."

"But Cap'n- how can ye put up wi' her after aw she's done tae ye? We all ken that the hangin'-"

"Eoin-!"

"I said  _that's enough_ ,  _Cadet_."

Tight-lipped, Eoin hushed sheepishly and turned his attentions elsewhere. Ryndan could see his ears were turning pink in his peripheral vision and only felt a little guilty. As the awkward silence blanketed the small group, the din around them grew louder and clearer.

Ryndan took the break in conversation with Edrikson to attempt his dinner. He found that if he held his nose while chewing, then the taste wasn't so bad, but it was when swallowing the lumps that he struggled. More than once he reached for the goblet of water. One almighty whack of his bread bun off of the table proved that it was not fit for digestion.

A lump in his mouthful became uncooperative when he attempted to swallow and the Captain spluttered his stew down his chin- just in time for Ranger Brighthallow to enter the mess tent. A hasty wipe and he returned the small – and far too amused- smile she gave him before the lady joined her own table of friends. The slightest raise of her eyebrows gave away that she had seen the whole incident and Ryndan cursed whatever fate was at play for  _that_  particular moment. Disgusted he pushed his meal away, damning it only to look up and realise his entire table had seen the exchange.

"Ha-ha! Oh Captain, you have got it  _bad._  Why don't you just ask her out and put us all out of our misery. We're getting tired of watching you two moon over each other!" Edrikson proclaimed, grinning cheekily from beneath his dark mop. Ryndan coolly regarded him.

"Edrikson, have you given up your plans to get a promotion?"

"No Sir." He sobered up quick enough.

"That's what I thought."

The tent started to fill up as the second dinner bell tolled, the majority of loud comments about the food as usual. Ryndan listened idly to the three at his table, occasionally glancing to Danila who was now tearing up his bread roll into small pieces. If there was order to his act then Ryndan couldn't see it. Each crumb ended up dumped into the wooden bowl by the time he had whittled it down to its finest point and served its purpose in Danila's mind. Ryndan missed the shy boy, recalling how brilliant he had risen in the shadowed vaults of Naxxramas all those months ago.

More than once did Ryndan's gaze hover over the blonde high-tail of Ranger Brighthallow and several times did he imagine just undoing that leather thong just to watch her hair tumble over those slender shoulders. Each fantasy slowly became more intimate than the last until he berated himself for stooping so low and in public too. A lull in their small group advertised a rowdier sort across from them, two orcs, a troll and a gnome huddled in listening to Beaker, one of the local smithies. The storytellings of the ex-gladiator were frequent and wild in the mess tent, many listening to repeated stories as he gesticulated haphazardly.

"And then he stomps over and demands a refund. I couldn't believes it, he was  _furious_ , you know? Big tauren, an eyepatch across his face and a nasty looking polearm at his back, you know- fearsome type. Not the kinds you wants to introduce to your Mama. Anyway, I hads one too many at the tavern that morning so I turns to him and says 'I can'ts do that,'. He gives me this growl, came from deep in the gut, his belly shooks with the intensity of this growl I swears it. I'm more pissed than a dwarven loo so I slowly walks to the anvil, stands up on it and looks him straights in the eye. There was a moment where I'm sure he contemplated beatin' me just to get his money back but I was  _wrecked_  so I didn'ts care. Anyways, I looks him straights in the eye, leans forwards until I'm smellin' his breath and says- ' I'm a warrior, I'm  _supposed_  to charge too much!'"

The surrounding audience broke into howls of laughter, knee-slapping and fists pounding on the table. Ryndan laughed out loud, his cheeks hurting with the cold. Edrikson was giggling merrily and the dwarf twins were buckled, holding their sides. Even Danila managed a small smile. He heard the lyrical laugh of Ranger Brighthallow across the tent and the whole atmosphere was positively charged.

"Wha- wha- ha- _ha_! What happened then?"

Beaker snorted, his broken nose distorting the sound and he spreads his large arms wide. "What dids I do then you ask? Well I ran, didn't I! Wouldn't you with a great hulking angry cow looking at you like the first meal he'd have in blue moon? I was a goner, mate! The moment it left me mouth I panicked, no ways I was staying there. He saw red and I was goin's to be dinner tha' night! I fells off the bloody anvil and chucked me hammer at 'im! I didn't stop to see where I hit 'im but the howls of pain was enough to knows I got 'im. I bolted untils me legs were fire and me heart was poundin' like a sailor gettin's laid for the first time in months. No siree, I ain't anyone's teeth-picker."

Laughter erupted once more. Ryndan was sure his face was flushed with mirth but this was more filling for him than anything served in the mess tent.

"I wouldn't be concerned, you are not considered desirable for consumption."

Mouths clapped shut as a husky voice artfully sliced through the hilarity. Broken and shredded, the amusement collapsed until a silent remains were left. Attention turned to a table in the back corner. Three Forsaken sat there, surrounded by weighted-down paper and plates of raw meat and shade. Two of them were looking rather hard at the last member of their trio, their writing paused and peace interrupted.

Beaker, a bulky man of about fifty with enough scars to be considered plaid-skinned, roughly pushed the bench he sat on away, toppling it and his gnomish neighbour and stood up.

"Would you care to repeat that, friend?"

The woman snorted and continued to write on her parchment. "I am not your 'friend'. I was simply informing you would be in no danger of being eaten."

Ryndan felt Edrikson tense beside him as all eyes watched Beaker step over the fallen bench and slowly walk over to the back table. The two silent undead visibly shied away when he reached, the smithy putting to sets of knuckles across the table to lean forward. Several people had stood up slowly, hands hovering over various weaponry.

"And why would you say that,  _friend_?"

The outspoken woman stiffened. She slowly put her quill down on the table and clasped two skeletal hands together. With what could only be interpreted as a condescending tilt of the head, she regarded Beaker like an errant child not doing what he was told.

"Sit  _down_ , Edrikson," Ryndan pulled the half-standing sergeant and glanced around. Out of most ready to intervene, Ryndan was amongst the highest ranked since the higher-ups ate elsewhere with a rumoured better menu. He sighed.

"I say that because there is nothing on you worth eating. Your muscles are old and sinewy. Your skin like leather and would be tough to chew, your brain is clearly lacking and therefore not considered to be consumed and the amount of alcohol you drink would most likely make your blood taste sour." She paused, angling her head with an audible 'crack'. "And  _that_  bit wouldn't even cover two bites."

To his due, Beaker didn't lash out right away. Instead he mulled over her worlds and probably admired her bravery. However, his fuse was as short as his hair and papers went flying from the table, startling the two silent Forsaken and several others watching on. It was only when Beaker grabbed the woman by her robes that Ryndan stood up.

"Beaker!"

The former gladiator didn't let her go, nor did his fist unclench. Ryndan softly walked over there, grateful he wasn't wearing his full armour, just his outergear and cape. He stood right behind the hulking back of the smithy.

"Beaker. Let. Her. Go."

No one moved. Beaker's breathing was coming in loud huffs and it wasn't difficult to imagine the flared nostrils. Ryndan very obviously drew his sword, the screech of the blade enough to make Ryndan internally apologise to the weapon.

" _Now_."

A collective sigh gave way as she was dropped hard back onto the bench. Chest heaving, Beaker left the tent through a parted causeway of onlookers while his friends sought to follow. Ryndan sheathed his sword.

"Back to your dinner people, there's nothing to see," Bakerson ordered from the serving tables. He looked as nervous as Ryndan felt. They shared a look of ' _well, wasn't that fun?!'_ as others either left the tent or reseated. Ranger Brighthallow caught his eye and game him an imperceptible nod. He turned back to the table to find the party on the floor, muttering amongst themselves.

"Vandra what were you  _thinking_  riling them up? Now we'll  _never_  be welcome here again."

"Yeah, where will we find a table big enough for all of this?"

"Shut up you two," 'Vandra' said. "Just collect the notes."

"You best leave," Ryndan addressed the three picking up the flung papers. The all regarded him with a similar expression of disgust as if it were  _his_  odour that were offending  _them_.

The woman shot him a venomous look from where she kneeled. "No we will not-"

"Yes, you will or I  _will_  remove you and if I have to do that then I cannot guarantee that it will be a pleasant experience."

Their standoff was short but charged and Ryndan compared it to the story Beaker was telling only moments before, only he didn't know if he was Beaker or the angry Tauren.

" _Fine_. Come, Fluster. Kellan."

Collectively they left, Vandra with her head held high and skin sweeping across sharp cheekbones while her two cronies scuttled after her. They received more than on rotten look on their way out. Ryndan returned to the table.

"Wow Cap'n, that was amazin'!"

"Mighty fine o' ye, Sir!"

"Well handled Sir. That could have been messy."

Ryndan waved it off. "Never mind that, let's go. The debriefing starts shortly and we don't want to be late otherwise Iskra will have our heads."

"Right you are, Cap'n."

The five of them left the now-buzzing tent. Rumours about that would become grossly exaggerated over the next few hours and he imagined a short time as a celebrity was coming his way. Drawing his cloak up and dreading his inbound infamy, Ryndan followed the brothers, Edrikson and Danila outside. The dwarves chatted animatedly about what could have happened, trading mocking blows between them and imitating poor fighting and whimpers. Danila held onto a piece of the Sergeant's cloak and let himself be guided. The snow finagled its way into Ryndan's scarf and made raw of his face.

The wind nearly swept them off of their feet as soon as they exited the barren safehaven of the mess tent but that wasn't what caught Ryndan's senses. A sound- a strangle and struggle- carried across it. Rounding the side of the tent, a small tussle was happening.

It was Beaker and Vandra's groups.

"Hey-!" Ryndan put his arm across Edrikson's chest, silencing the intervention. "Sir-?"

They watched as the two orcs beat hard into the Forsaken assistants. The cries were muted and suppressed in the wind, silenced by the elements. Ryndan could see the snow being splattered with coagulated fluids.

"Walk on, Sergeant. We don't want to be late."

"But Sir, that isn't-!"

"I said ' _walk on'_ , soldier."

"…Yes. Sir."


	68. The Debriefing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- General ranks higher than Commander.

He remembers the stench of bodies in the heat.

In the thick Durotar sun did they cook and roast. Alive…not alive. Both scorched, but the corpses were always worse.

It had sickened him, the boy he once was. Greener than grass did he cross the sea to Kalimdor, barely old enough to shave. They had warned him, all of them, that the sun was vicious, unforgiving. "You'll wilt," he was told. He was determined not to.

But they did. They wilted, and they fevered. They sweated and they gasped. Armour was heavy, packs too cumbersome, water not enough.

They got lost. His small band became separated on roads unfamiliar, in terrain hostile. They had panicked, and rationed, and scouted and planned.

But the heat didn't let up. Four had died.

Ryndan had been horrified. Retching for days at the thought of his ex-comrades baking at the mercy of torridity few could withstand. In calefaction did they swell. Puffy, grotesque and bulbous, the fallen were ballooned until popped, the sound of bursting flesh and putrid guts rupturing choking Ryndan each time. He couldn't even bury them- they were too splattered, too spread. And the flies  _crawled_. He always preferred the cold after that.

But now, in the icy north he almost recanted. In the sweltering humidity of Durotar at least the bodies has one last act, seeming active in their final state. It postponed the illusion of death until their intestines decorated the dusty earth. In Northrend however, they were stone cold and frozen in time, never to decay or rot in the hard ground of Icecrown.

Heat was oppressive, forcing down upon you, willing you to succumb to its thermic weight.

But the cold…that was different, more deadly. Cold numbed you, crooning you into unfeeling, coaxing you into disassociation, seducing you into the belief that your limbs were fine. The cold whispered you into a hypnotic state. It embraces you, giving you a dead man's kiss as it seeps into your mouth, trickles down your throat and constricts your lungs. Your heart stops mid-doze and another victim is tallied.

Heat was torture. It was dry and it was slow and effective with maximum pain, but at least it was honest when it killed you. At least you are aware of your dying. The cold is not so kind, it is far crueller in its execution.

And it was still a preferable fate than dealing with Iskra, their commanding officer.

General Iskra, draenei in origin, iron in spirit and leader of Ryndan's patchwork battalion. Assigned to the newborn regiment, she was strict in her ways, professional in her presentation and a demon on the field. Not a pretty woman by Ryndan's judgement, her flat stare, pointed face and square jaw attributed to the callous nature of the officer. She had scars, dark blue, raised and keloid. One, on her lower jaw, had spread to cover part of her visible neck in a taught display of defiance. Another across her forehead, not noticeable in most light but catch it the right way and it shone.

She was by-the-book and the very definition of militaristic. Cleanliness and tidiness was of the utmost import, checks a regular occurrence. Equipment was to be in order, attire to be immaculate. Orders were to be obeyed, not questioned and her vocabulary was dispassionate. Strict and upright, cold and detached, she suited being stationed in Icecrown.

But Ryndan was not fooled. While most only suffered her, he  _loathed_  her. Bad words would cross his peers' mouths about her and silently would he correct them to be worse. Instructions would be given and his fellow soldiers would snap to it, aware of the consequences if they delayed. But Ryndan would linger, he would silently debate her intentions as knowledge of final goals were now kept obscure to the lesser officers. No one knew the immediate endgame down this far of the chain of command. Ryndan would meet her eyes. Ryndan would question her judgement. Ryndan would be brought up short every time. But he refused to trust her blindly.

No one else said it, but everyone knew. Unofficially it was a public secret that she was the reason that Martial Law had been pushed into fruition. Unofficially, she was the reason that the gallows by the Champion's Ring had been built. And she had been the reason they had been used.

But this was all speculation, never to be confirmed. It was all  _unofficial_.

Ryndan was not fooled. Iskra was a hurricane disguised as a woman and unleashing her might was the quickest way to meet one's Maker. So when the brothers Stoneborn, Edrikson and himself walked into the debriefing tent to find it already full and silent, they knew they already had strike one.

"Ah, how kind of you all to join us. Take a seat gentlemen. As reward for your tardiness, you can all report to the stables after the meeting and muck them out, I'm sure the hands there will appreciate your hard work."

It was like glass, her voice. Harmless on the surface but beware its sharp edge. Like glass, her voice can cut, it can pierce. With glass just the right amount of pressure and skin will break, skin will bleed. It can chip, slice, pinch or sever. When Iskra speaks, her words are clear and as is, just like a reflection. Seemingly nothing to hide but what is behind and out of sight. But with her voice wills have broken and men have bled when the sharp edge is presented.

She didn't even look up from her paperwork she was leaning over at their entrance. She knew they were late. She knew who was missing. Her presence was cooler than the chilling winds at their backs as the men entered into the tent, armour more pristine than the glaciers forming on the wooden beams above them. The brothers muttered their apologies and Edrikson made a show of saluting their commanding officer before being dismissed to sit. Masking a wince, Ryndan and his party made their way to the back of the tent, taking up odd leftover spaces on the benches beside their fellow soldiers. Avoiding the alternating accusatory and sympathetic glances from everyone else, Ryndan made his way to the far back to fall in beside Dezco, catching a brief smile from his tauren tent-mate. Checking that Iskra still had her head bent the desk she stood at, he risked asking a question to his friend.

"Why are we late? The messenger said the meeting was moved to after the next shift-change," Ryndan whispered.

"She decided to start early," he barely heard the hushed response, even despite tilting his head as subtly as he could to hear out of his good ear.

"Of  _course_  she did."

Iskra stood up tall. Donning full Argent regalia and pristine ivory-and-gold cape, she was the perfect embodiment of a General. Her horns curved back with symmetry envied by many, and her black hair cut to a striking point, promoting her no-fuss attitude. At first, five months ago, Ryndan had been awed by her regal carriage and concise ways, admiring her scars as a sign of survival, but now he was irked by her lack of leeway. Forgiveness was not a word in her foreign vocabulary and 'mercy' was worse than any swear one could utter in her presence. Ryndan had learned this the hard way.

Her eyes raked over the gathered, sometimes lingering on people here and there. A quirk of the lips or a twitch of the brow meant displeasure and several would be paying for that tonight by the looks of it.

"Now that we have all decided to attend, let us turn attention to the map."

The large board at the front, as wide as a man was tall and half the height, was presented to them. On it was the most detailed geographical knowledge they possessed on Icecrown. Frayed at the edges, dented from where many others had pointed and discussed, it was one of the most valuable pieces in the whole tournament. And too much of it was still blank. Once a week, unless urgency called for something sooner, each battalion gathered to become up to date with the situation and progress. Ryndan had found most of the time that this was highly unnecessary, gossip spreading faster than any messenger could relay information. Such as what he had heard on his way over to the tent.

A dagger was drawn from her belt, the subtle screech of the metal leaving its sheath demanding complete attention.

"Corporal Aniza!"

Another draenei woman clambered to her feet at the sudden address.

"Sir?"

"This gate right here," the dagger tip touched the northern part of the map. "Its name."

The floor was rickety. Stones had been lain on the dug foundation, cushioned with hay and dirt before laying down the wooden boards. All buildings had been like this to give stability instead of doing it right atop the hard ground. The tents were struck in such a way to cover even the foundations without losing height and draughts tended to escape in this way. But because of the hastily erection of some of the pavilions, the work had been rushed or, after months of use now, worn down with so many crossing boots over the planks. Due to all of this, the floor creaked. Each shift of a foot sounded like a guilty plea, betraying the nerves of the one doing the hesitating. And Corporal Aniza was poster child for this sad symphony as her insecurity and indecision translated into wooden groans.

"Aah, b-buras l-lek mishrun-"

"In Common soldier, not everybody in here is educated in your native tongue."

"Ano- um, yes, Sir. Err, they- no,  _that_  would be the a-"

" _Now_ , Corporal!"

"That's Mord're-dar, Sir!" Aniza choked. Ryndan sighed for her and closed his eyes, his mouth drawn tight in resignation. Despite his affected hearing, he still heard a few muted breaths of anxiety were released around him.

"Well done, Corporal."

_Shit._

"Thank you, Sir."

" _I am not finished_. Well done on demonstrating your ignorance and stupidity to the  _entire_  regiment. Your peers are now aware of your incompetence to learn three simple names. Private Galed! The name of this northern gate!"

Galed shot up two rows from the front, another green soldier with sandy hair and a snubbed nose, he was barely fresh from training. "Sir yes Sir! That is Aldur'thar, Sir!"

"Very good Galed, sit down and refrain from such overzealous bootlicking in future." She turned to Aniza, still standing, though noticeably slumped.

"I expect every single person in this regiment to be schooled and completely up-to-date on the state of affairs and that  _includes_  knowing the enemy's fortresses and vanguards! Mister Dezco! The names of the other two gates in the region."

The bench creaked as Dezco stood beside him. "Corp'rethar and Mord'rethar, Sir." He offered a wan smile to the shaken Aniza who had turned around to listen. Ryndan felt for the young woman still standing, she had only arrived three weeks ago. Her eyes had flickered with fear when she realised her error in mispronunciation as well as misnaming and mislabelling. He tried to offer her an encouraging look but she turned, head bowed in defeat. Ryndan seethed.

"Thank you Mister Dezco, sit down." She slowly walked along the front of the room, her eyes cast downward as she placed one hoof in front of the other with great care, hands folded behind her cloaked back, dagger still drawn. Grimacing, Ryndan noted the tense shoulders of Aniza, her head subtly following the General and possibly the dagger too. The Corporal visibly flinched when Iskra stopped moving. "This regiment is  _my_  regiment, and because of this I have certain standards to be maintained. If they are not then I become very upset." She paused, allowing the words to settle. Sharply she turned her head, addressing Aniza. "Soldier, you have until tomorrow morning to report back to me to recite not only the three gates, but the location of each known Scourge battalion. If –when I question you on it- you answer incorrectly, your punishment will be severe, am I understood?"

Aniza barely whispered her compliance.

"Good. Now sit down you have embarrassed both me and yourself quite enough." With minor relief and heightened stress, the trembling woman nearly collapsed back onto her bench, a friend besides her risking a small pat on her back.

Iskra returned to the map, daily bullying quota reached. Briefly glossing over the Vrykul village to the north west and the unknown south-west region of Icecrown, focus was kept upon Mord'rethar and the main assault point surrounding it.

"The situation has much improved over the last week, vastly so if we compare it to the state of things four weeks ago," she pointed to the south of the map, offset from where a sketch represented the Argent Vanguard. "Those overlooking the Front at Mord'rethar reporting back with positive advances and minimal losses. The taking of Ymirheim two months ago has aided in carving the way to the taking of the gate and is still seen as one of the most successful missions to date-"

He scoffed. He couldn't even disguise it quickly enough. Dezco froze beside him. There was a small gasp to his left. Someone uttered  _'Ryndan_!' A head was slightly shaking out of the corner of his eye. There were at least three sighs. Several turned to look at him and he to top it off, he earned the pinpointed gaze of his draenei officer. A curse was balanced on the tip of his tongue. He sat at the back of the room, amongst the taller of the few, surely it didn't carry all the way to -

"Mister Firesworn, do you have something to add?"

Of  _course_  she heard it.

"No, Sir. I do not."

"I do not believe that. Come up and explain the state of Icecrown to your fellow soldiers. After all, you were there at Ymirheim, perhaps you can enlighten the rest of us as to why you think it was not successful."

"I didn't say that, Sir."

"I will not ask again, Mister Firesworn."

Shit. She was  _pissed._

He didn't move. If he stayed he would be ordered anyway and if he went up then she would try to verbally trip him up. It was a vicious cycle and he was the only one going around and around. Their duel was never ending and she always had the upper hand. The last time they had 'clashed' he had been given double night-shift for a month straight something of which he was only coming to the end of. Prior to that…he had been demoted.

He kept a cool visage but internally he was berating himself. Demotion or discharge he couldn't care less about at this point but if she tacked on more night shifts he was screwed. His sleep had been fumbled to hell, his joints nearly frozen each night and physically he had more noticeable weight loss than most of his peers.  _Why did he have to be so stupid now of all times?!_

"I am waiting, Firesworn."

Having already lost this battle, one of many, before it had a chance to begin. Ryndan pushed himself to his feet only now acutely aware that he was one of a few not in full dress. Something she was almost too quick to point out as he drew closer to the front.

"Had an accident during dinner, did we?" A stain on his coat indicated his sloppiness when Ranger Brighthallow had entered the mess tent earlier. "Shameful. Let the rest of you be taught that this state of undress and lack of cleanliness is not tolerated in my regiment. Firesworn, latrine duty for a week might help change your mind about remaining on top of your appearance."

They locked eyes, Iskra only just shorter than Ryndan but holding more power than he ever had in his military career, and their battle of wills commenced. Ryndan wanted it to be the immovable object versus the unstoppable force in his mind, but realistically Ryndan was the only one whose position was weak and so only he could give way.

"Yes. Sir."

"Good, now, since you are an expert on all things Icecrown, please detail exactly what the situation is to the rest of us." A cane was handed to him and she backed up to lean against the worn desk expectant and smug. Their silent offense came to a sharp end when he had to face his peers.

Shame flooded him without reason. He hated her, most of them did, but every time he challenged her,  _he_  became the object of their frustration. Why couldn't he just be silent? Why must he anger her? Questions as such gazed back at him from nearly fifty people. One or two looked sympathetic from what he could see, but Ryndan couldn't even maintain eye contact with his judging audience for too long. Ever since the demotion several weeks back, and the gossip surrounding the events, he had lost credibility and respect from most of them. The one order of hers he had no problem obeying was concerning the reasoning for that. He had to remain silent about why he was demoted, and it was the only time he ever agreed with her outright.

Swallowing his defeat, Ryndan turned his attentions to the large map. Information and symbols and scribbles and lines bombarded his visual sense as his green eyes roamed over it. He decided to start honestly. The cane whacked the bottom of the map.

"This is gate, Mord'rethar. It is the second assault focal point for the Crusade and her allies following the shambles at Ymirheim. As we know, the idea is to take out each of the three identified gates, starting from the south and working anti-clockwise to the northern gate, and finally to the western. Our information about the south-west of Icecrown, apart from the location of the citadel, remains poor and unclear." The slightest of shifts in Iskra's position in his peripheral vision made him hesitate, waiting for a chastise that never came. They all knew this was the situation anyway. "For now, as we know, the idea is to capture and dismantle the gates, thus weakening Arthas' defences in Icecrown. Now at Mord'rethar the Horde have been making excellent progress with their war machines, taking out – if reports are to be believed- Scourge and undead not unlike that which some of us faced in Naxxramas. Abominations and crude homunculi roam the area to the command of their necro-lords-"

"And what of the Shadow Vault, Firesworn?" She cut across. His mouth tightened to a white line, refusing to meet her gaze. Two deep breaths through his nose and he straightened. The cane followed his eyes to the northwest corner.

"The Shadow Vault, a hub of focussed military for Arthas' armies was once a very real threat to the Tournament. Positioned miles away but directly along the coast of our own base presented it as more of a threat than either of the gates flanking us to the south and west. It was reported four months ago to have been dismantled internally by agents of the Ebon Blade." Several sounds of dislike and annoyance sounded throughout the tent. Many- if not most- in his conglomerated regiment had been present at the Argent Vanguard. "It has  _apparently_  been assured to us that the Ebon Blade mean no threat and are working separately to us to take down Arthas." Many drew disgusted faces. "This raises questions, such as 'why did-'"

"And the names of these agents, Firesworn?" She was baiting him. He would not give in.

"I do not recall, Sir. It was months ago and I've slept since then." A titter rippled through at his reply. Irked, Iskra stood.

"Their names were Guntroth the Harbinger, Karinade the Gutwrangler, Fizzward the Cunning, Terowin the Darksworn and Cersae the Hacker. Two of these agents, as I am to understand it were once aligned with some of the remnants of your former regiment. One would think you would be eager to recollect such feats made by former companions of yours."

"Not at all, Sir. Whatever affiliation they once held with the Crusade has been since redacted with their allying of the Knights of the Ebon Blade and of course, the Argent Crusade do not associate themselves with this faction,  _especially_  after the events of the Argent Vanguard. After all, we do not agree with their methods or means to achieve, do we Sir?"

They were at the tipping point. It was no secret that Ryndan believed the Ebon Blade to be in collusion with the Crusade behind the scenes. The evidence was too much, the coincidences too many.

"Of course not, what a stupid thing to suggest."

"Right you are, Sir. After all, the most logical thing for anyone assaulting Icecrown would be to take down the first Gate. Any first year at the military academy could swear by it. It just happens to be pure luck that the Knights dismantled the one hub that was the biggest major threat to the location of the Tournament. A coincidence I'm sure, especially since reaching the Shadow Vault is difficult enough as it is. But they're just Death Knights trained in the art of war with some of the greatest tacticians we've seen in modern times. What would they know about assaulting the most important location in Icecrown? It's not like they don't have knowledge of the terrain like we do."

"Your point, Captain?"

"It is just another fine coincidence that from the scouting and reconnaissance missions we've sent out, none have reached further than Aldur'thar or Corp'rethar and yet we still update our map with information of names like 'Jotunheim' or even of those who assaulted the Shadow Vault. It is just strange that we come to know this without reaching such places ourselves, is all Sir. It is almost like someone is supplying us with information and updates from the western coast."

"You tread a fine line, Firesworn." And did he know it, but there was something exhilarating about walking this tight rope and he didn't want to stop now.

"Not at all, Sir. I was merely highlighting the fine timing for such a base to be overrun and how it in fact aids us tremendously. It's almost coordinated, one would say, but I would  _never_  suggest that the Tournament and the Ebon Blade are working together. That would be sacrilegious and far beneath us, associating with such heathens. But then it's not the first time that the Crusade has undermined their own principles, after all what happened at Ymirheim could easily be-"

"And what should the Crusade's next move be, since you are so well-informed?" Ryndan allowed himself a small victory.

"I suggest we bolster guard and double the peace-keeping duties around the Tournament sir."

She laughed. It was ugly and harsh but Ryndan's expression remained unchanged.

"And to what purpose would this serve, Captain?"

Ryndan stopped his eyes flickering to the three men he had entered with. "Well sir, I'm sure you are already aware of this, but the news spread as we crossed the grounds this evening that the Alliance have attacked the Horde who were assaulting the Front." The barest of muscle twinges betrayed her lack of knowledge. "It is yet unknown if the Alliance were provoked or not, but any progress made this past week," he pointed the cane to the southern gate on the map. "Has been lost now in the wake of civil unrest." The cane dragged sharply across the parchment, almost crossing it out. "What we have now is high chance for revenge and retribution to unfold on these very grounds where someone thought it was a good idea to place both factions side by side. And that,  _General_ , is why I suggest we fill out the ranks locally."

Whispers broke out around, some confirming this news for they had heard it too.

"Silence…" The murmurs died down as all faced frontwards. "There is no confirmation of this, Firesworn. One should not believe gossip."

"It wasn't gossip, sir, it came from the lips of the very messenger carrying the official news. I spoke with him myself- but- but surely you would be aware of this, Sir? It isn't like you would be passed over with such urgent news. Or were you too busy eating your warm porridge and freshly cooked eggs or having your ass pampered not to bother with-"

His neck cracked as it whipped round from the force of her blow. He didn't have a chance to recover as his arm was twisted straight behind him and he was marched outside and slammed into a wooden beam. One plated knee slotted uncomfortable between his and suitably disorientated, Firesworn groaned.

"You listen here Firesworn and you listen well," her voice was right in his ear, quiet enough only for him. "I always knew Ashwood was soft-" Ryndan twisted in defiance at this. "She was a shit Commander and I see her influence in you, something I am more than willing to break out of you. Insubordination is not tolerated under my command, and your status as a Naxxramas survivor will only get you so far here. You are running out of favour and excuses will not be made any more for your piss poor behaviour. I made that young woman walk the gallows, Captain, and I can make you walk them too if you really wish to follow in her stead. It would be a fitting end since you are the reason she climbed those steps in the first place."

He grunted and pushed into her hold, twisting free with great pain. He had no qualms about letting his fist fly, catching it on her pauldron and slicing the knuckles open. She was swift, he knew. She outweighed him at this point and caught his injured arm, turning the wrist forcibly so that pressure locked his elbow sharply. A knee to the stomach sent him to the floor and he gasped. "I suggest you keep your conspiracy theories to yourself in future. You are already on a downward spiral to dance the hangman's jig, do not try and drag anyone else with you."

With an almighty yank, he was thrust to the ground, snow and dirt invaded his mouth. He looked up to see her lording pitifully over him. "You are a disgrace, Firesworn," she spat. "Know this. If you cross me again, I will have you in chains so fast that you won't see it for blinking. You are not in Ashwood's graces now, Captain. You are in  _my_  unit now."

Ryndan spat blood as he watched her return to the pavilion. His head was ringing and his arm shook with tremors but still he chuckled.

She confirmed what he had thought. The Crusade was most certainly working with the Ebon Blade despite devout claims to the contrary. She was not the most up to date with the latest news, possibly by exclusion if the other officers disliked her and finally…she was the one to implement capital punishment on these neutral grounds.

Ryndan was not fooled though. He got away lightly. General Iskra was a hurricane disguised as a woman, and who knew what kind of damage she was capable of if truly set loose.


	69. The Graveyard

The monolith is mottled. Patched parts are paler than the rest of the stone where moss once sat. It's not polished, this pillar. It's not sanded or smoothed. It is rough and coarse, much like the conditions in which the names written upon it became deceased.

Ryndan just observes it. The wooden bench he is sat on is cold to the touch and uneven. His discomfort has numbed over the time he has been there, engraving the names before him as firmly in his mind as they are upon the stone.

"General Nhuada Ashwood" is amongst the first to be chiselled into the rock. The simple font is blocky and hard, representing everything she- or most of the names carved- wasn't. The monument is a poor honour to those who have died in service for the fight against Arthas and Ryndan feels this keenly as the graveyard around him gains more tenants.

There is still space on the obelisk. It stands taller than Ryndan and twice as wide. The names curl around all four sides, starting from the top. There is more than seven-eighths void. The idea that this column may one day be found in a hundred, a thousand years' time by some lonely traveller filled from top to bottom with names of individuals long since dead makes Ryndan … hollow. One day he will just be words upon a stone, his name last spoken an age ago.

That's all they are now. Words. Posthumous acknowledgements of people already grieved for, already mourned. A chiselled reminder that they will never walk this earth again under the false illusion of remembrance.

It's snowing. It's always snowing. Sometimes the snow threatens the roofs and canvases of the Tournament lodgings with its growing weight. Sometimes it collects in mounds, blocking all exit. Constant bonfires dotted about only keep the frost away for so long. Supplies grow short during these storms and rationing must be made. The snow can halt all trade, postpone all resource drops, prevent healers from reaching their much needed destinations and undoes any unfinished labour work. The stadium itself would have been finished weeks ago if blizzards hadn't destroyed the initial foundations.

Ryndan had to wonder if Arthas could control the weather in Icecrown. If he wasn't sitting atop the fabled Frozen Throne, laughing at the plights and troubles of them, but only ants to his eyes. A random squall here, a sudden gust there and weeks of work and advancing could come undone. Fighting on terrain not one's own was never advised and yet here they sat like sitting ducks, waiting to be hunted, waiting to be plucked into oblivion.

His thoughts keep him company. The graveyard is a quiet place, Ryndan frequently visiting to seek comfort from his old Commander. He knows sitting out here is ill for him, Frost Lung isn't uncommon at the Tournament and he is certain that a startling percentage of graves around him are only filled because of the disease. There are a few other visitors milling around him, some speaking to the sullen headstones, others laying gifts or tributes. Over the whistle of the wind, Ryndan can hear the sea challenging the cliff upon which they sit. Down the road the hustle and bustle of the Tournament alludes to a livelier atmosphere than it actually is.

A hand on his shoulder startles him and Ryndan is greeted by a sympathetic smile of Ranger Brighthallow.

"You look a little lost there, Captain." Her Thalassian lilt is a comfort in these desolate parts and Ryndan eases into his mother tongue gratefully.

"No more so than any other damned soul here, Ranger."

"Feyen."

"Feyen."

She seats beside him, fully armour clad and bow hanging across her slender back. Her quiver rattles as she settles and they regard the column before them.

"I heard about Iskra."

Ryndan smirks mirthlessly. "Yes, it does seem to be a point of gossip at the moment."

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself, I was not gossiping." His smile is a little truer at her telling off. His black eye hurts from the movement. "It's just circulating that you gave her a bit of what-for and then got seven hells kicked out of you, nothing more."

"My apologies."

"Judging by your face, I'd say that were true."

"Indeed. She's a General for a reason, and it isn't her pretty face."

They fall silent. Feyen regards him steadily, but Ryndan cannot meet her eyes. His embarrassment at yesterday's 'event' is at its peak and the graveyard appealed as the least judging place. Few of his fellows have spoken with him unless necessary. The Stoneborne twins re-enacted the scene with great exaggeration later that night in their tent, desperate to know what happened outside of the Planning Pavilion. Edrikson, with his badly-hidden disapproving stare, had also listened curiously, but Ryndan had glossed most of it. He was given a good beating and that's all they needed to know. Deflated, they had sat back and recounted the 'more epic' points of the argument, the tension blown out of proportion and Iskra's expressions made to seem like they would have popped. Ryndan had chuckled along with them, but the weight of the revelations made him weary. Only Dezco had regarded him with sad smile that told Ryndan that he knew there was more. But Ryndan stayed silent. It would serve no more purpose now.

A creaking of leather alerted him to Feyen's movements, but he nearly keened when soft gloved fingers caressed the back of his neck. Eyes shut out the world as he leaned into the touch, each stroke and tenderness hooking him gently into a state of bliss.

"Why bring this upon yourself, Ryndan?" a voice whispers. "Why must you challenge her so?"

His eyes flutter but he does not leave her ministrations. "Someone must. She embodies all that I stand against. What use is it challenging Arthas when we lose ourselves in all that we believe?"

"We would be no better than He?"

"Mmm."

The fingers played and combed the hair at the base of his neck absently. Relaxing was off the cards entirely, as the biting breeze nipped at his face, but with concentration he was able to focus on those little touches. The thumb would ghostly sway across his skin, fingers curling in a way that would almost induce a whine were he less coherent. He marvelled in the touch, so rarely known, so badly needed. He sighed as her lips pressed to his temple.

"Do you really expect us to be able to keep our morals here Ryndan?"

The question he had asked himself over and over, day in, day out. With a resigned exhale, Ryndan reluctantly pulled himself just far enough away from her attentions. She was not hurt, nor confused. Instead she regarded him patiently as he gathered thought for his argument. He was tired, so tired. He was tired of fighting, of minimal progress with maximum loss. He was tired of standing up to Iskra with no backing. He was tired of being haunted.

"I think there are some principles we absolutely must honour if we are to retain our identity. How can I sink to a certain level, commit particular atrocities or justify terrible actions now to accomplish something, and then call myself an Argent Dawn paladin after this war? I won't be the same person if I cross this line and all that I stand for hereafter will be false, Feyen. Iskra as much as confirmed that the Crusade is working behind the scenes with them and I cannot abide it. By accepting alliance with the Ebon Blade I then accept their methods and actions and I simply cannot do that. Not after the atrocity they committed at the Argent Vanguard. Not after all they have done to us as a people. Do you see?"

She smiled sadly. Her blonde hair, tucked away in her pulled up hood has some escaped strands framing her long face. Eyes, brighter than Ryndan's, looked back at him with regret. They had spoken a few times over the last couple of months, more so when his double night shifts collided with her own, and together they had found a shared sense of humour. He respected her opinion on much and frequently they recalled their homeland with fondness, sharing stories of mutual acquaintances. At the very least they were friends and he could see in her face now a battle warring of whether to keep that friendship or risk it. He nodded for her to go on.

"I do see, Ryndan. I do, but," she looked to her empty hands, "-but the rules are different here. Sometimes we have to make personal sacrifices just to remain sane, never mind to win the war. War is always ugly, and most people here have realised that. They understand that we have to do what needs to be done if we are to save everyone that we love and care about." He did not miss the flicker to the grave. To  _her_  grave. "Even if that means we lose ourself in the process."

She sighs. Exhaustion rolls off of her like water and he wants to reach out. "Everyone knows we're 'secretly' working with the Ebon Blade, Ryndan. You're not special in making some big pronouncement by standing up to that. You are digging yourself a hole and soon you won't be able to climb back out. You are teetering on the edge of this double edged sword and the longer you sit there, the more you cut and hurt yourself and soon you are going to bleed out."

Feyen holds his gaze, serious and stern. His throat bobs with the weight of her words as it strips away his carefully armoured mental barriers piece by piece. She vocalises his fears, that he is alone and no one will help him.

"You need to make a choice, Ryndan. Leave or stay. If you leave, then yes, you have your morals, you have your identity. But you lose your honour. The guilt- it would kill you, Ryndan, you know it would. If you desert then you would be found. You would be found and tried unfairly and hung like Grace was." Ryndan flinched at the mention of Feyen's friend. "And what will that accomplish?  _Nothing_. You will be  _dead_ , and your family and friends will mourn." He looks away, but a firm grip on his chin forces him back to her. "But if you stay, Ryndan, if you let yourself  _accept_  this sorry state of affairs as the only way we can win then you can achieve so much. Don't you think that is a sacrifice worth making?"

He hated it. She hated it. They all did. Because Feyen was  _right_. It was drop all morals here and now, let go of all that he stood for to declare unhindered war on Arthas. He thought of his family. His mother, father, sisters…brother in law and now nephew. Ryndan had never met the child, but he loved him more than his heart could contain. If he survived…he couldn't face them. He couldn't look them in the eyes and ask for their forgiveness for barbarity committed, for boundaries breached.

But they would be safe. His family would be  _safe_  and able to live long lives free of Scourge tyranny. His younger sisters would grow up so fine, able to have families and careers of their own in peace. His older sister could raise her child with her husband without fear. His eldest sister would be proud in what Ryndan had done with his career.

Ryndan's face contorted and twisted as the hot tears filled. For Feyen was right. Iskra and Fordring and everyone else around him had realised what it had taken Ryndan so long to understand…no, to  _accept_. He had always understood it but stood against it proudly and strongly, holding fast to one last shred of morality, of humanity and honour than ultimately had no place in the hell that was Icecrown.

But could he do it? Could he sacrifice all that he was- and is- to contribute to the downfall of Arthas? Even if they failed, he could truly say that he gave  _everything_  to the cause, including himself, not just his body. Was there anything on this damned earth that was worth him trading his very spirit to save?

There was. In his rugged tent, underneath his lumpy cot there was a box. An old engineer's toolkit that he purchased beaten and dirty from a vendor at the Tournament. The lock was rusted but he made do. In this box was Ryndan's personal and most prized possessions. It held letters. Letters of love. Of news, of best wishes and happy times. Of words memorised and recited under his breath, a lifeline to keep him afloat. And as of the last three months, they included pencil sketches of a tiny, chubby and healthy elven child, so newly born into this world with his entire life ahead of him.

Yes. There was something on this damned earth worth letting go of all ethics to save.

"'No price is too high to save the innocent,'" he uttered.

"No. No price at all, not even our souls."

And like that Ryndan broke. He picked a side and fell off the sword, carving himself irreparable, scarring eternally. The hole into which he fell was dark and never-ending, and when he hit the bottom all that made Ryndan himself shattered. The man who had landed on Icecrown nearly a year ago was gone. A weight that had been choking Ryndan finally snapped and with it he detached from himself, remade and hollow. The threshold was crossed and a door slammed behind him, never to reopen. From then on, his stare was absent, his words not quite as meant, his prayers spoken with conviction lost.

Small arms encircled him as Ryndan despaired, mourning that which he could never regain. Repeated apologies and pleas fell on his deaf ears as cries engulfed it all. He had fallen off of the precipice and wings of faith did not spread to send him soaring. Instead he had plummeted, frightened and terrorised until he landed in the endless ocean of truth, the reality of the situation drowning him entirely. His last breath was a whimper.

Ryndan never returned to the graveyard after that. He could not bear to put himself in front of Ashwood's name any longer. He was no longer worthy of her silent counsel.

Disgraced and emptied, Ryndan resigned himself to finally becoming a fully realised Argent Crusade Paladin, Champion of the Light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- First time I have ever cried while writing a scene for this story. I am so sorry, Ryndan. Truly.


	70. Gambits and Confessions

Breaths came in controlled huffs, small clouds of air punctuating every silenced groan. Gritted teeth indicated the encroaching end as one bare hand worked frantically. Constrained under layers, wrapped around one widowed, woollen sock did it stroke, desperate for a temporary freedom, to reach that  _one short moment_ of euphoria that blotted out the hell around the frustrated man. The friction both aided and abraded the act, Ryndan revelling and damning in the sensation as his actions grew quicker.

His face tensed in recognition of the familiar surge within him and his lungs hitched in anticipation. Tightening announced the arrival of the promise of his energetic efforts and the affair was upon him. Bubbling to the surface, the pinnacle of his efforts happened in a few, modest moments. A lone strained noise escaped his throat and a back arched off of the cot. Several meagre twitches ended the event and spent, heaving and breathless, did he fall back into the mattress. The high was over as quickly as it had come.

In bliss did he float for a few, uncounted minutes. His hammering heart settled into a much more contented rhythm and the world crept its way back into his dizzy subconscious with each contented hum.

Sounds of business and activity decorated the silence of the tent, so many people outside completely unaware of his brief escape. Lying still did he listen, tilting his head to hear better, his breath regulating with his pulsing veins. His awareness started to expand again to beyond the fabric walls as he came to.

Crates being moved, soldiers being ordered, armour being repaired, food being burned, jokes being told, warnings being issued, missions being delivered and anything-but-good news being spread.

Such was life at the Argent Tournament. Months without change, with little progress to rejoice about. He was sick of it.

Disgusted and irate, the sock was removed, cleaning any residue and he righted his outfit roughly. With his reintroduction into the present, the cold began to nip at his bare hands again, a tentative reminder to his location, his mission and his misfortune at being there.

Throwing his head hard against the cot, green eyes sought answers from the flapping tent above him. None were found.

Closing his eyes in resignation, Ryndan pretended for a moment that he was somewhere else.

Anywhere else.

* * *

Again!"

The sword swung with a cutting song, digging deep into the ground where Ryndan had lain only a breath before. Rolling to standing, he corrected himself and went on the defensive to Iskra's unwavering offense. His steps fumbled backwards as she was ongoing, brutally never ending. He feigned. She followed. He ducked. She struck. A mighty crash with the flat of the blade into his side knocked the wind out of him and his helm became very hot inside.

"Come on, Firesworn!"

Vision wavered as oxygen was lacking, Iskra planting one hoof directly in his chest and throwing him backwards. The ground was not kind in catching him, and Ryndan tumbled over himself painfully, the armour digging in as he bent and twisted all the wrong ways. On the floor, again, vulnerability exposed him and he scrambled to his feet. His hands fumbled at his waist, desperate to find his- the dagger! It-  _it was frozen to the sheath!_  Ryndan swore, clambering to find his longsword His weapon now separated from him after being thrown and he frantically reached for it. Unable to catch a breath, unable to shake away he sweat from his forehead dripping into his eyes, he was blinded. He swept a leg clumsily, contacting nothing but air. Not waiting for her to strike, Ryndan scrambled across the dirt to find the- his pauldron! No! It had  _locked!_  He couldn't move his left arm; his sword hand! Dust kicked up about him as another swift blow was delivered to his head and he choked.

The earth shook, his stomach heaved, head rang like a tuning fork and he was sure he was the only one noticing. Unable to articulate even a cry, Ryndan slumped on top of his stuck arm, struggling to catch his breath in his dented armour. A sword struck true straight into the earth before his face and only exhaustion kept him from flinching.

He was done, spent and beaten. And she bathed in it.

His chest heaved, as fingers trembling clutched at his leather chin strap. The helmet was throw several feet as Ryndan gulped in sharp Icecrown air.

"Unforgiveable!" She addressed the battalion watching. "This is  _not_  the standard of hand-to-hand combat I expect of this regiment!" Another hoof struck his back. "We leave for the Strike Mission in two days! I expect peak battle finesse and this-" A boot into his kidney was given. "This is horrendous!" She paused, striding away from Ryndan with her gauntlets clasped behind her back. More words of discouragement and disparagement left her barbed tongue as she lashed at his fellows for his misdeeds. He rolled onto his back and found freedom for his ribs.

Ryndan checked out, unable to hear over the buzz of pain shooting up his body. He had been en route to collapsing in his bed when he was summoned to the Aspirant's training ring for unscheduled sparring. They had learned early on that Iskra believed in only real battle simulation; and that included full armour and proper armaments. Even now, beaten and bloodied, Ryndan could still appreciate that. It would be one thing to train in minimal padding and false weaponry and hone one's skills in close combat, but it is another to apply that in an entire suit of plate, unused to the true weight of a blade. But what Ryndan did  _not_  appreciate was being deliberately singled out when clearly dead on his feet and grey with exertion, tainting blue with the cold. He hadn't been surprised at being called forward. He did not need to have turned to feel the sympathetic glances of his battalion, but that did not make the shame of his beating any less.

Two hooves , black and well-tended, entered his vision and he looked up dizzily.

"Get up Firesworn, you are a disgrace."

Unwilling to give her any more satisfaction, Ryndan unsteadily drew himself up, armour rattling and breaths choking. His arm stuck at an odd angle and he set about removing the armour piece. Finally torn free, massaging his joint, he turned his attention back to the cold gaze of his commanding officer. The commanding officer who was now wielding her dirk. Ryndan didn't need to look around to tell that every one of his fellow soldiers were now occupied in sparring having paired up at her instruction.

Dezco faced against Brannar, a large draenei who could match the tauren in size and strength. The Stoneborne twins were together as usual, playing and pretending to spar. Danila limply held his own mace while Edrikson adjusted his friend's shield, the pair always sticking together at the Sergeant's insistence. Hummel, Daruken, Ther'lasir, Aniza, Sorrowfoot and more- they all practiced overhead swings, dodging improper jabs and watching their own partner intently.

Which meant that no one paid them attention as she stepped closer. His breathing was already laboured but he fought to control it, determined not to let her think any more weakness of him.

The blade touched his divested arm.

"A poor show, Firesworn. Very poor indeed. And I heard you used to be  _good_ , vone of the best even. Exaggeration? Or low standards of Ashwood's? I vonder vhich…"

He kept his tongue in check as the blade drew across his upper arm, plucking several threads of his padding until his thermal underwear was reached.

"You have fallen so low, Firesworn. And for vhat? The moral high ground? Vhat a vaste." Her voice was as glass, cutting, biting, and pointed. Her eyes couldn't be avoided, she was level with him. Blood was drawn and his sharp inhale was lost in his clouded huffs. Her smirk, the one that announced she had heard it, pulled at her scars making her face as pleasant as her personality; twisted and ugly. He could feel the small trickle of blood meander its way down to his elbow. Without warning the blade tore away, slicing deeper, and was sheathed.

"Until next time, Firesworn. Best be on your guard. Go get cleaned, you stink like an orc. That armour better be spotless vhen ve next meet." She turned, walking away to bark at the rest of his troupe. His fingers twitched at his belt.

His dagger was there, still stuck in its home after Ryndan had been on night shift for the last ten hours. It was probably for the best that it was frozen, for Ryndan did not trust his judgement in this haze.

* * *

"I'm tellin' ya, it exists! It chased me as far as the tar pits afore disappearing back intae the trees!"

"In the name of the Light, Eoin will ya please stop gripin' oan about tha' overgrown lizard!"

"Henrik, the man asked me aboot mah travels, 'course I was gonna tell him about Un'goro."

"So you are telling me that this thing was bigger than a Zanalari raptor?" Marcus asked leaning forward.

"Oh aye, bigger, wider, taller, deadlier- you name it, it was grander."

"I have seen raptors over eight feet tall, Master Stoneborne."

"This was bigger, I swear it! More like four o' those raptors bigger! I jest not!"

Marcus laughed. "With the amount of spit you are generating in your excitement I would dare not doubt your claim."

Henrik leaned forward "He's been harpin' oan about this fur years. I've yet tae meet anyone who believes him. Dinnae get drawn in by it. I was there an' I saw  _nothin'_."

Eoin reared up, affronted at his brother. "You  _were_   _not_  there, ya daft git. You were up at Marshall's Refuge flirtin' fur lower vendor charges."

"Well  _aye_ , we barely had three gold between us, I had tae dae summat cos  _somebody_  thought it'd be a grand idee tae buy ale instead o' rations!"

Several chuckled merrily as the siblings descended into their ritual arguing. Post-training, they waited around the smithies to get their weapons sharpened and armour tended before final preparation began for the mission to the Broken Front. Five or six others stood before their own group, milling and chatting. Ryndan recognised a few as long-term Tournament-goers, but there were some new faces springing up every day. Tomorrow, the Horde airship would land outside of the grounds and with it, adventurers would alight…and Ryndan's regiment board the day after.

Loud voices penetrated his thoughts as the volume picked back up amongst the group.

"I am very serious Eoin. There are insect-creatures twice the size of a man; bigger than myself," Dezco proclaimed.

"You  _are_  joking," Ryndan countered, disbelieving.

"Nay, my friend. Down in the furthest reaches of Kalimdor, where the sun is hotter than Durotar and the sands tainted by a war long over, there roams many-legged creatures with husks harder than bone."

The tauren, normally quiet and observant, had stunned everyone listening. Even Danila, normally vacant and mute, looked to the man with an incredulous expression.

"Well, after the stories I've heard about what roams beneath these lands, I can fair believe that," coughed Marcus. The man had sauntered into their little party, partially to skip the growing queue, Ryndan reckoned, but also to collect on some bet from the dwarf brothers.

"What stories?" Eoin enquired.

Ryndan answered. "Nerubian." Dezco and Edrikson nodded solemnly, Danila flinched, grabbing a corner of his friend's cloak. Naxxramas was not soon forgotten.

"Oh- oh aye. Heard about them fae others. Apparently there was some massive city doon in Dragonblight or summat. I think it was Iskra's auld command that actually went doon there. They say that more than half didnae return."

"Can we please not talk about Iskra," Ryndan cut across, almost desperate not to think about her.

"By the Light, you two really loathe each other don't you?" Marcus started. "What the hell did you do to piss her off so much?"

"We had a disagreement about suicidal missions. She- not even on site, just ordering from far beyond the line- ordered my party to advance at Ymirheim. This was back when I was Lieutenant-Commander and had my own lead on assaults. She gave the stupidest order that would have sentenced us to death and I disobeyed that order. We tried a different tactic and nearly lost one; but succeeded in distracting the main guard for the official assault to begin. Despite my method working, she never forgave me for outright ignoring her command."

"Wow- that's… what a bitch."

Ryndan was inclined to agree.

"But that's not why you lost your rank?"

"Ah- no. That was- a more recent, unrelated incident." Ryndan didn't feel inclined to speak about that particular tragedy, and the other man picked up on that.

Silence befell them all and the muted tones of the Tournament grew a little louder. The circumstances surrounding Ryndan's demotion was common knowledge in their battalion, his peers shifting uncomfortably at the mention of the events surrounding it. Their moods soured at the memory until Marcus decided that was not on.

"Well this is too gloomy for my liking. Cheer up and speak of something much more preferable- like  _women_ ," he leered. The Stoneborne twins brightened considerably and Edrikson tried to hide his interest, throwing a not so subtle glance to Ryndan. Despite being a rank apart, and a few years in age, Ryndan saw the young man as more of a student than a subordinate, but he was not sure if it was mutual.

"Oh aye, Marcus- tell us of any recent conquests lately!" Eoin's grin could not be hidden beneath his impressive beard. There was a bounce in his stance as he eagerly awaited some lewd tale.

"Conquests? Nay, sir. I should divulge a tale of longing, of a failed conquest that keeps the heart tender and sore."

"You were shot down? Who dare?!" Henrik cried.

Marcus, a dramatic man by nature Ryndan had learned in these last few months, was a good man. Frequently people swapped stories about him, ranging from crude and lascivious to downright absurd. Passed by word of mouth, the tales grew more extravagant with each telling, whether it be in the mess tent, over a campfire, or between bored guards patrolling the border. He had become a minor celebrity on the grounds and was generally well-liked for keeping up morale. It was the one thing Ryndan could not fault the man for; cheering up the people, soldiers in particular.

Slipping into a role well devised, Marcus played the injured lover, one gloved hand rest atop his chest and his face crestfallen in defeat. All he was missing was a feathered hat, coloured tights and a lute. "Alas; my tent mate. As beautiful as a moonlit night and as dark as the richest coffee. Day after day I yearn, knowing that near me is a mysterious soul who holds many secrets, with an aura of tragedy desperate to be loved, but cannot allow-"

"'An aura of tragedy'? You best not be describing me, Marcus." Heads swivelled in the direction of the new voice and Ryndan laughed loudly.

Bart, garbed in fur and leather and carrying a crate, stood behind the faux-bard with one eyebrow raised unimpressively. Lynara, crutch underarm and a small bag over his shoulder stood behind him, smiling. The blond warrior spluttered, caught in the act. "Making up more stories of your heartbreak are we? Do we want to make it a fourth rejection?"

"Ah- well, you - that is– "

"Uh-huh, I see."

Marcus waved his hands around wildly. "Harmless fun- for the gentlemen, you understand."

Bart remained impassive. Ryndan suppressed a chuckle as Lynara struggled to keep a straight face by Bart's shoulder, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"Ah thought you said it was a wummin!" Eoin cried, red-faced.

"No you glaikit bugger, he said 'tent-mate'. Women dinnae bunk wi' men on these grounds dae they? Ya fool," his brother countered, slapping the back of Eoin's head.

"Apologies to disappoint, Master Dwarf," Bart addressed him, turning a very pointed gaze to Eoin. "I assure you that I am  _not_  a woman. As it is I have to put up with this prurient man," he nodded to the wide-smirking Marcus. "But to take such rumoured discredit concerning the legitimacy of my manhood? It wounds and offends me deeply." Ryndan nearly buckled when Lynara turned away, his shoulders shaking hard.

"No- I didnae mean tae-"

"Leave him alone. Eoin, he is teasing you, pay him no heed," Lynara choked out from behind him, throwing a look to his friend. Bart broke character after a moment and chuckled. Eoin looked between the pair and shook his head.

"Damn elves…" he muttered.

"What brings you this way?" Ryndan asked.

Bart interrupted Lynara first. " _This_   _one_  thought it would be a clever idea to hobble over half of the tournament grounds with two loads and a crutch." An accusatory glare was thrown to the paler elf and Lynara grumbled, this discussion clearly already having been had. Ryndan watched on fondly.

"Lynara, ask for help, you fool," he admonished of his brother.

"I was managing fine!" he protested.

"Do you require more assistance?" Dezco asked, earning a kind smile from the priest.

"No, but I thank you. I fear it is already covered by my nanny here." A laugh rippled through the group. "Is anyone hungry, though? I have a box of cooked sausages from the kitchens." Lowering the sack over his shoulder, a wooden container was drawn forth and opened. It was passed around until each man had one each, gratitude and thanks lapped upon the priest until he blushed. The dwarves consumed theirs in a breath, while Edrikson, Ryndan and Danila ate a bit more conservatively. Dezco declined and Marcus nibbled his own.

"Ah, still warm too. Perfect, thank you my dear," Marcus, bold and confident as ever, leaned to kiss the back of Lynara's hand, earning him a surprised look.

"You're welcome. I bought them for the hungry and it seemed that you all qualified."

"You are not wrong," Ryndan agreed. "I had a couple of hard biscuits last night with some hot water before shift and nothing since."

"I was wondering how you went so long on duty without pissing," Henrik said.

"Who says I don't piss on duty?"

"Ryndan," Marcus said seriously. "It's freezing enough out here as is." To demonstrate this, each word was accompanied with a puff of condensation. He took another meagre bite of his food, clearly savouring it. "I drink as much as I need to and no more to save whipping myself out unnecessarily. But to do that at night time?  _No._  That's  _suicide_. The balls would ascend higher than Mount Hyjal if I tried to piss at night so I  _cannot_  imagine you doing it. You would have to be Arthas himself to piss out here without fear."

Ryndan just laughed heartily with the rest of them. "That I am not. But you are not wrong, pissing at night time is marginally worse."

"I heard there was a guy that got stuck to the bowl and he had tae perch over a fire until the bed pan heated up and unfroze his balls," Eoin whispered urgently. "Rumour has it that they had tae cut them off."

"'Strewth, will ya just quit with the tall tales-" Henrik huffed indignantly.

"No, they weren't cut off, but he was appointed a special topical ointment that we had to ask the alchemists to make up," Lynara added. Several sets of eyes landed on him.

"Are you serious?" Marcus asked. Lynara looked him in the eye.

"Deadly. I work in the hospital."

" _Must_  we speak of genitals when we are eating? Or at all?" Edrikson interrupted, exasperated.

Ryndan laughed with the others, and then had a thought. "So… if Eoin is telling the truth about the frozen balls, does that mean he was telling the truth about the Un'goro super-raptor?"

Bart and Lynara looked confused but Henrik looked like he had an epiphany and turned to study his brother- the one who was wearing a wide grin with bits of meat in his beard.

"Well bugger me," Henrik breathed.

"Thank ya, Cap'n!"

"My pleasure, Eoin."

"Right, well, that's our cue to leave I think," Lynara said, looking mildly bemused at the turn in conversation. "Have a good day gentlemen, I hope not to see you in the hospital any time soon."

The pair left and the twins were called up to the forges when the queue had finally reached them. Ryndan watched his friends leave, grimacing at the iron grasp Lynara had around the crutch and wishing for all the world it was unnecessary. Of course he would attempt to do things himself, not wanting to inconvenience others. He just didn't understand that he was not a burden.

"So stubborn," he muttered, taking another bite from his sausage.

"Who's that?" Marcus asked. Ryndan peered to the man, surprised to have been heard. He nodded in the direction of his friend as he finished his food.

"The sin'dorei? A stubborn one, eh?" Marcus rubbed his stubbled chin. "I like 'em stubborn. Especially elf womenfolk, they've a fire in their breasts matched by no other. And a healer to boot, bet those hands could work magic."

Ryndan shared an amused smile with himself. "Well er, he's a devout man, Marcus, I doubt you could woo the pants off of him," he said fondly.

Marcus blinked twice and squinted at the retreating figure. His robe was thick and woollen, plain and brown. A white sash was tied around his waist and thick gloves adorned his slender hands. His hair was in a tight plait down his slightly-hunched back and thanks to his slim figure, his hips were straight and narrow. Even though encumbered and crippled, the animated nature of his conversation with Bart was evident even from a distance. Ryndan felt a warmth in him as Lynara laughed. He didn't pretend to understand the pair or their strange not-quite-more-but-closer-than-friends-companionship, but he was glad they had each other. Whatever was between them, hindered or stopped, it was still strong enough to support the other man.

Ryndan ignored the ache.

"A man, you say?" Marcus replied slowly, rubbing his chin. "Well now, that makes it more interesting. Shirts, skirts, I lift 'em both, makes no difference to me," he shrugged.

"Marcus," Ryndan admonished, surprised he had not picked up on the pair's closeness.

"Aye, all right then! No chasing the pretty elf, I got it. Don't want to interfere with his vows or nothing." He threw his hands in defeat before sighing. "Still, a shame that. Legs like that, I had a hundred and one uses for 'em."

Ryndan shook his head despairingly as he was called up to the forges for his turn.

* * *

Supplies deposited, Bartheleus dismissed with a grateful smile and cloak divested, Lynara hurried to the recovery tent where he was already late for his shift. He sent a brief, selfish prayer that he might be able to pause for tea at some point if all was quiet.

Out of breath and rushed, he reported to the Matron's desk overlooking the rows of beds lining the tent before them. Mae-hun greeted him with a hug, which he returned, grateful for her internal warmth, before getting up to date on the latest of the wounded.

Lynara followed the shaman down the beds, quietly whispering about the sleeping patients on the ward. Some had curtains around them- sheets pegged to yarn lines strung across the beams- for privacy, others had them drawn back, in need of constant observation. All-in-all he was pleased with the progress, glad to be on this shift. Most favoured this ward for the little fuss and overall positive aura that came from seeing so many  _not_  screaming in pain. Despite it being early morning, light snores and deep breaths were the score for the hour. A waving figure towards the back of the tent caught his attention and a smile broke out on his face. He thanked the Matron for her information and hobbled his way down the aisle, his crutch knocking on each floorboard.

"Dunrok, it has hardly been a week since you were last in here flirting with the nurses. Are you so desperate to see them again?" Lynara sat on the edge of the bed, smiling slyly at the young orc and his sling. He rest the crutch at the bottom of the bed, glad to put it down. Dunrok grinned widely, several teeth missing and a nose that had seen more broken days than whole.

"Yeah, and I didn't want you to come over; I was waving to the lady!"

" _Tough_. I don't want a repeat of last time where you had chatted up so many of them that I was left on my own to tend!"

A rumble of laughter went through the boy's chest at the memory and he grinned widely. Despite missing those few teeth, he was exceedingly charming, Lynara had found. The priest patted the blanketed leg.

"What happened this time?"

Dunrok bowed his head, though there was no hiding the cheeky smile. "Might'a got thrown from my mount in joustin' training."

Lynara twisted around to squint at the chart at the foot of the bed.

"And you managed to get a – a  _puncture_  from landing on the ground?"

"Well- no, not exactly. I mighta have been swinging the pole about a bit and…I mighta, sorta…splintereditwhenIfell."

Ah, now he saw.

"So you were showing off?"

The orc turned away, his green cheeks darkening. Lynara pursed his lips together in amusement.

"Come on, robe off, let me see."

Dunrok fumbled awkwardly and drew his bandaged arm forward. Carefully unravelling the treated cloth, Lynara inspected the exposed wound. The stitching was professional and proper, the injury site showing no signs of ooze or infection.

"Looks fine, your recovery should be swift and you can be back out there charming the ladies," Lynara reported, bandaging it back up carefully.

"Promsie?"

"Indeed! But are you going to be foolish and show off again?"

Dunrok spread his uninjured arm wide as if to ask 'what can you do?'

"Uh- _huh._  Oh my boy, the things you get up to for love," Lynara chuckled. "Who was it this time?"

Dunrok brightened, barely wincing at his holed, slung up shoulder with a grin wider than the north sea. "The troll girl who works at the stables- with hair yellower than the Durotar sun and skin bluer than the skies of Mulgore!"

"Saka-jun?"

"Is that her name? Even her  _name_  is heavenly."

"Oh dear, you really are far gone, aren't you?"

Dunrok beamed again and Lynara laughed.

"I don't think she likes me though, not if she gave me the reins to a kodo that threw me."

" _Threw you_? Kodos are the most well-tempered beasts I know. I'd favour one over a horse if they didn't make me nauseous."

"Well this one stamped around and I lost my footing in the stirrups. He shook us about so much that the saddle snapped and I fell."

"Hmm, how odd. Perhaps-"

Coughing, hacked and choking interrupted them from behind a curtain six beds down. Mae-hun, hurried in to soothe the unfortunate person. Both men wore matching expressions of concern and sympathy for the unseen patient.

"Hey,  _Lynah_ , I've heard that he has  _Frost Blood_ ," Dunrok nodded to the sound of discomfort. "Is – is that as horrid as it sounds?" The priest frowned slightly at the orc. "Does it really turn your blood into ice?"

"Well, not exactly no. 'Frost Blood' is a misnomer. What actually happens is your body temperature drops dangerously low and the longer you're prolonged to it, the harsher the consequences. Right now, that patient has Hard Lung. Lungs have little chambers in them and some of them have closed off, making it difficult to draw all the air he needs to breathe. I think he also has an infection, so mucous is building up, hence the coughing."

"Will he-  _will he live_?"

Lynara glanced down.

"We're not sure. Right now only medicine and time can help him. We can relieve the pressure occasionally using our healing abilities, but they cannot be relied upon. The body needs to heal on its own, otherwise we are the only thing keeping him alive. We need him to cough up."

"That's really sad. I'm sorry." Lynara looked up surprised at the boy. His black hair was worn in a loose topknot, some of the hair having fallen out from when he slept on the pillow, and despite the boyish, innocent grins from earlier, Lynara noted a wisdom in the dark eyes regarding him softly. He didn't even hear himself ask 'why?'

"It must be frustrating," Dunrok stated. "To see so many hurt, so many injured and in pain and not being able to heal them with a click of your fingers no matter how much training you've had."

Lynara stared.

"I- yes. Yes it  _is_  frustrating. And damning. But inevitable." He turned to look at the curtained off bed again, the coughing now having calmed at the hands of Mae-hun and her shamanistic guidance. "We cannot control or cure everything, to do so would be unnatural. In such a place as Icecrown, we are not only battling the elements and Arthas, but our own limits as well. It is just a matter of time before we find out what we can push the most: ourselves or our luck."

Silence fell between the two as the words hung heavy and honest in the cold air.

"I did something I regret." It was a whisper, daring not to upset the melancholy.

Often, people confessed things to Lynara. While he was primarily a healer for now, some felt the need to ask him to be a priest also, to assuage them of their sins and unburden themselves to him. It was rare before, but practically living in the hospital has granted him opportunity to stand at the deathbeds of so many unlike ever before. Not even during his time in Shattrath had Lynara been exposed to such a need for avowal and forgiveness. He now recognised that very need in the vulnerable orc before him. While Lynara did not really possess any spiritual authority to dissolve them of their burdens, he could lend an ear to lessen their guilt.

"What did you do, Dunrok?"

"I- I took part in hurting some fuc- some  _Forsaken_  a few days ago. They upset a friend of mine and he asked us to teach them a lesson."

"Why did you do it?"

"To- well… I didn't  _like_  them. They spoke up to Beaker and it was rude and annoying. But kind of funny. I didn't like that; not after the Wrathgate," he finished darkly.

Lynara managed not to sigh. Despite having occurred a months ago, many had not- or would not- forgotten the events at Angrathar. It had caused much tension in the locale, making things difficult for Peacekeepers and diplomatic advances to be made. Things were tense enough with the murky events at The Broken Front as of two days ago, but to add the internal hatred as well… Lynara pinched the bridge of his nose.

"That was a small faction of the entire Forsaken race, Dunrok. You  _must_  understand that most of them did not want such a coup and certainly did not want a culling as what occurred at the Wrathgate. Their home was destroyed in the aftermath and they have been left to rebuild thanks to the consequences of that little radical group. You cannot tar every Forsaken with the same brush."

"Well, how do I know they weren't part of it?" Dunrok demanded.

"How do you know they were?" Lynara countered. "Not all orcs are fel-corrupted and not all Forsaken are guilty of wanting the Wrathgate." He hoped by using a metaphor so close to his race's own history, he could at least get the young orc to  _think_  alternatively.

Caught in a stalemate, Dunrok huffed and slumped back against his bedframe. Lynara patted his arm gently.

"I know, it can be hard and confusing, but we  _must_  move beyond this mass prejudice if we are to succeed here. The few Forsaken willing to brave the animosity directed towards them and their kin are here, are they not? Is that not a sort of courage and honour that the Horde normally value?"

Black eyes peered uncertainly at Lynara and the priest felt like his point had been made. The fact that Dunrok admitted to hurting them was enough to know that he questioned the malice himself. Lynara just gave him a little push in that direction to let him know that it was all right to admit fault.

"I must tend to my other duties now, just think on it, yes? Perhaps once you have made peace with yourself, you can make peace with those you hurt." Dunrok nodded silently, his unmarred face in a small frown, uncertainty hidden in the shallow creases.

"Good lad."

* * *

Ryndan ended up sharing lunch with Marcus and Bart. The rest had to attend their duties, but as Ryndan was on night shifts, his schedule differed from them. It normally meant an empty tent to return to for a few hours rest, but his stomach grumbled at the thought of food when Marcus told him he had called in several favour to rummage up some fresh sausages, craving them after the morning's taster. And so they sat outside of Marcus and Bart's tent, perched on chairs desperate for warmth from their cooking fire.

As was always with Marcus, most of the topic of conversation revolved around his sexual exploits.

"Let me tell you, you open a woman's flower petals and smell that sweet,  _sweet_  perfume, you will be like a honeybee to the nectar my friend.  _Lap it up_. And when you see that little pink bud-"

" _Marcus_. I am a grown man, not a blushing virgin. You can quit with the innocent metaphors. I have been in the army long enough to be educated." Ryndan had let slip to the man that he had never lain with a woman and had regretted it since. While not ashamed of the fact, it had meant a torrent of 'educational' information being forced upon him by the man holding the sausages over the fire.

Marcus grinned toothily, matching Bart's deep chuckle. "I do beg your pardon, oh learned Sir," he bowed mockingly, an awkward feat in his chair but amusing nonetheless. "I shall not underestimate your knowledge of female anatomy. Unless it's male anatomy you wish to learn about? I have very good analogies surrounding food." He waved the sizzling sausages on the prong, eyebrows wiggling. Ryndan snorted.

"Ah, thank you but no, I have not really felt inclined towards my fellow man, I do house with them after all."

"A wise decision," Marcus took a bite out of his sausage, huffing steam when it was too hot for him to handle. He swallowed hard, voice raspy as his throat burned. "A woman is  _much_  sweeter to taste than a man, I have found."

"It depends on the man's diet. Certain foods and fruits will alter that for you," Bart supplied thoughtfully, tapping one finger on his cheek.

"Truly?" Marcus cried. Bart nodded.

"Yes, but they must eat these things regularly to get and keep it in their stream."

Marcus grinned again, leaning forward in what Ryndan could only assume to be a seductive manner. He held the sausage to his mouth almost provocatively. "Care to show me that, Master Halthelus?"

Ryndan watched half-humoured, half-surprised as Bart remained not only taciturn, but downright stoic like earlier. This must be a regular occurrence for the two. The night elf sat on his own chair, one leg over the other and hands clasped, his whole being not moving save for one eyebrow.

"I believe I have rebuffed your advances not once, not twice, but  _four_  times now. My answer remains unaltered." Marcus sat back and laughed. It was a deep laugh, one that originated from the belly rather than the throat. A sound none too often heard on these grounds.

"Aye I know, just thought I'd chance it. Might catch you off your guard one day, y'see. It's so difficult tenting with a man as infuriating as him. Can you blame me for trying?" Marcus asked suddenly of Ryndan.

Flustered at suddenly being thrust amidst this, the paladin regarded his friend. "Er, well he is handsome, and a decent individual. I guess not?"

It was Bart's turn to laugh. His head thrown back and upper body shaking with mirth. "Ryndan, you are a treasure. I understand why Lynara calls you 'brother' now. Do not be fooled by looks, my naïve friend, though I thank you for the kind words." He smiled. It was genuine and truly meant. While Ryndan had never been as close to Bart as he was to Lynara, he valued the companionship offered by the man. They had spoken briefly at Valgarde, beginning with Luciya's troubles and it had evolved beyond that. Their mutual concern for… _her_  in Dalaran had made him grateful to the darker elf and having someone with a shared history such as Naxxramas in Icecrown made the two bond subtly over their time here. They found familiarity of less-darker days in each other.

Their shared fondness for Lynara was also forefront to their unspoken agreement to be friends. Ryndan highly suspected that he would be a part of Lynara's life for a long time, so he wanted to get to know this man who may become as close to him as a brother as Lynara. So far he had little to complain about.

"Why don't we leave the flowery words to the poets and choristers, eh?" Marcus interrupted, realising he had induced a moment. "Ryndan," he turned seriously, "do you know what the most beautiful part of a woman is?" Ryndan shook his head no. He was rather fond of hair, himself. Hair that he itched to run his fingers through or a jawline he wanted to caress. Eyes that might follow him… swaying hips…and archer's fingers-

"It's her back. Curved, bent and sweating. You get a woman into a writhing mess like that, with wild hair and feral groans, then you sir, have pleasured your partner."

A memory stirred. "You've said that before. On the road to Westguard."

" _Westguard_ -? That was…that was  _months_  ago. Nearly a year ago in fact! You were there?"

"Aye, travelling with the Crusade. You were talking to my boys about a woman's back, I remember now." The familiarity of the man was now placed, having subtly annoyed Ryndan since they had first met at the Tournament.

"I remember that," Bart contributed.  _That's right, Bart and Luciya were in that group also. It was the night that Walden had-_  Ryndan halted that train of thought, feeling unpleasant.

"The Crusade-  _Oh!_  That's right, Nhuada was there, wasn't she? A fierce woman that. An  _amazing_  woman actually, do you know once she-" he stopped, his face falling in realisation. For the first time in their short acquaintance, Ryndan saw Marcus look upset. His features crumpled as he slumped backwards, staring into the fire.

"A damn shame that," he whispered shortly, shaking his head. "A damn, fucking shame."

Ryndan gritted his jaw, nodding his silent agreement. He remembered his Commander in battle. Her back was always straight, always strong. Even when she had fallen under the plague of insects in Anub'Rekhan's chambers, she had stripped her armour and ran straight into battle. She had been sweating with exertion, fighting enormous amounts of pain. Her back had arced when she had raised her sabres high, charging in with her soldiers. She never left them.

Until she did.

He thought of Iskra's back walking away from him earlier that day, his fingers itching to his dagger.

And he thought of another back, riding away from him into the distance with crimson, flyaway hair, fingers and heart unable to reach out to her.

His downed mood clouded over him until he excused himself to his tent after finishing their quick lunch. That feeling of wishing to be elsewhere returned with a vengeance.

* * *

His armour clattered to the floor when he started, several pieces falling from the pile on the bed. Feyen laughed, inviting herself in. She sat a steaming bowl of water down on his flat trunk lid and bent to pick up the armaments. A faint aroma of herbs caught his attention.

"Sorry for startling you, didn't think you would mind me dropping by," she smiled, watching his reaction with clear amusement.

Ryndan was partway between scandalised and fond surprise at her unannounced appearance, having been half-way towards a complete state of undress when a woman walks into his otherwise empty tent.

"It is fine, I am just jittery." They tidied up the pieces, arranging them at the bottom of the cot. "To what do I owe the visit?" he inquired curiously.

The tent was big when emptied, but when it housed six men; one of which was a Tauren, the furniture and accumulated clutter shrank it alarmingly. The tops of his ears could grace the tent canvas and he had but a few square feet to call his own. Ryndan was accustomed to the condensed quarters, revelling in the few morning hours he got to himself after night shift when his fellow tent mates were acting out their duties. But when Feyen stepped inside his personal circle, Ryndan felt like he was in an overpopulated tent once more.

"I saw you earlier by the smithies, you looked a bit worse for wear. You look like you could use some- what do the humans say? 'Tender loving care'?" The Common words were accented, her Thalassian inflecting the phrase almost musically. Ryndan was grateful to Feyen. They had discovered early on in their companionship that Ryndan heard his native tongue better, not having to work so hard to decipher the syllables. He struggled a little more with Common, having spoken it for less time than Thalassian, and so when he was in her company, or in the company of fluent speakers, he would descend into the dialect that Ryndan found most familiar to aid his impaired hearing.

But Ryndan found it had a different effect on him tonight. Her voice was lower, her movements deliberate and intentions clear. While she stepped towards him, eyes honest and chin high, Ryndan did not feel crowded as he might have done. She was an attractive woman, he was half-deaf, not blind. During their mutual shifts over the last few months, their companionship had evolved from begrudging acknowledgement over shared tragedy, to respect, to familiarity and finally onto fondness. He had not seen her since the graveyard, but had thought about it throughout his night shifts with alternating emotions of gratitude and bitterness. He had also thought a lot about her since then. There was no denying the attraction between them, the one Ryndan had not the will or want to act upon, only a fleeting whimsy.

Perhaps until recently. Perhaps … had she attempted this boldness on the other side of his graveyard revelation, Ryndan would have gently let her down. Taken the out that she was silently offering him now. But he found, in all honesty and thought, that he did not want to. Ryndan was curious, perhaps even desperate now, to see what could become of living when he himself might not live much longer.

"A noble sentiment," he remarked. "What must one do to warrant such attentions?" Whatever brief relief passed in her eyes was replaced by something much more subtle, but twice as determined. She seemed a little hesitant beneath her mask of confidence. Ryndan wasn't sure why.

"One can take one's shirt off." The timbre of her solid voice reverberated southwards and somewhere between words, his heart sped up. Another shuffle forward of the petite woman and Ryndan daren't move. There was a moment here, a fragile and glass like moment that might be easily shattered should he speak. And so he remained silent, his body thrumming in her close presence in answer. Without looking away, Feyen removed her leather gloves with balletic ease and gently threw them onto the bed.

Slowly, still testing the water's depth, two of her hands went to the collar at his throat. When Ryndan made no movement to the contrary, deft and nimble fingers delicately undid the laces of his undershirt. If she noticed the hitch in his breath, Feyen did not say out loud.

When the last lace was loosened, a timid hesitation in her actions brought revelation to the paladin. Her hands, steady and long, rest on his covered chest and nothing more. They stood toe to toe now, mingled breaths and unbroken gazes. There was a question in those knowing eyes of hers, and Ryndan saw it between heartbeats. She wasn't nervous for  _her_ , she was nervous for  _him_. He was the variable in this gamble of hers, the unknown factor. She was taking a leap of faith right now, and Ryndan was the one being relied on to catch her.

With this understanding, Ryndan reached up, wincing, and pulled the dirtied cloth from his torso. Her own breath caught and curved lips parted ever so slightly. Her hands only left his body for a moment before tentatively resting again on his skin.

The central coal oven that chimneyed through a hole in the canvas above was still smouldering from the routine of the other men that morning. While the temperature wasn't a preferable or suitable one, it was warm enough to endure a normally quiet change. But combined with Feyen's intimate positioning, Ryndan was not feeling the cold while standing in nothing but his leg padding and undertrousers.

It was at this moment in time that Ryndan was grateful that his long underwear had developed enough holes to be unsuitable for wear until he could mend them.

The elf was silent as he observed the ranger. Her eyes darted across his naked chest- that which was once broad and was now lean- gaze hovering over old and new scars, frowning at the rib-side bruise forming. Her fingers flexed with his exhales, thumbs idly rubbing his sternum where they rest. He found his nipples harden with exposure and he almost asked her to let her hands wander. But he remained quiet, allowing her the floor. She had come here with some purpose, and who was he to stand in her way?

With a last flash to his face, her warm hands left their position and she turned to retrieve a towel she had brought. Laying it out flat on his cot, Feyen quietly instructed Ryndan to sit on the towel and so he did.

Booted feet planted on the firm earth, his back to the bed, Ryndan listened to the cot creak as Feyen climbed on top of it and around. After a bit of curious bustling, the purpose of the towel became clear.

Hot, scalding rivulets travelled their way down Ryndan's back where the cloth touched his shoulder. A gasp of mixed pain and pleasure escaped him and he arched. It had been so long since he had washed in anything above lukewarm temperature that water only a little hotter than it scorched him. The herbs worked as intended as scrapes and scratches stung with treatment.

"Is that too hot?"

_"No."_

And that was all she needed. A rough cloth, blessed and ragged, worked its way in circles around his back. Knots so tightly wound, started to unravel as she pressed strong hands through each stroke. Water dripped off and down him. Some slipped beneath the waistband almost causing Ryndan to moan at the contact as the drops slid  _down_  and  _under_. Over and over, Feyen worked her strength into him, kneading him as dough to a baker until Ryndan was pliable and undone. Little gasps and unconstrained breaths escaped him more frequently as she hit a spot that was  _just right_. She plotted some unknown course across his back and followed it with experienced abandon. The tension of his long day washed away with every stroke.

It was a while before Ryndan realised that she was no longer using the cloth, his back cooling once more. While she had massaged when washing, now her hands were the sole thing touching him and a tension in his stomach grew. Thumbs pressed around his spine, fingers tenderly pushing into his abused skin. Knuckles worked into muscle and Ryndan was gone. His skin, raw from the cold, now thawed with desired friction, his throat echoing with each unspoken ' _yes'_.

Sooner than he'd like, after a time unmeasured, hands ceased their holy ministrations and encircled his stomach instead. His eyes fluttered when he felt her forehead resting beneath his neck. Listening to an instinct he was unware he had, Ryndan covered her calloused hands with his own, feeling her soft breaths on his skin.

He was content in this moment. 'Tender' had been the correct word, and it was then that Ryndan understood how starved of this he had been, and how ignorant he was on the hunger. Or deliberately blind to. But his hands tightened on hers when lips pressed sweet promises onto him.

"Feyen."

She stilled, but did not move.

"I am grateful for your care, both here and previously, but you do not have to do this if you feel you must. I have no expectations here." His voice was languid and distant to his own ears, so must have sounded similarly relaxed to hers, earning him a small chuckle from the woman.

"I want to; I- I enjoy this."

Despite his protests to Lynara that they were both adults and could make decisions for themselves, Ryndan had not dared believe them to actually come this close to anything. He had thought it harmless flirting at most, with maybe a bit more appreciation on his side. But he never intended to pursue it. Now that she was the one coming to him, Ryndan's already shaky balance was thrown off-kilter. He understood what she was offering here, and considering his imminent departure on a mission the day after the next, he was sorely tempted to take it up. But a lingering sense of nobility prohibited this.

"But what about your husband?"

His reluctant hope dwindled when she drew a deep breath.

"I do this  _because_  of my husband."

Confusing logic to be sure, Ryndan thought. He said nothing, but waited.

"I miss him terribly and doing things like this, it makes me feel like he can be here with me."

Ryndan closed his eyes in defeat, squeezing her hands.

"But it is wrong," he uttered, attempting to leave out the bitter disappointment in himself. "To interfere with the union of a woman and-"

" _No_ , it isn't. We have an agreement, Gendred and I. This is something he encouraged me to do should I wish, should I need. He also has my blessing to do the same in my absence."

Confused, Ryndan peered over his shoulder. He couldn't see more than her blonde crown, but frowned nonetheless. "I don't understand."

"We are separated often sometimes, when the other is called away for training. This- this is just sex, Ryndan. Or the prelude to it, however far you want to take this, if at all. I'm not asking for anything other than comfort from you, and I figured- I assumed you might want the same from me." She lifted her head slightly, allowing their gazes to lock. "I've always been open and honest about being married, Ryndan,  _because_  we have this arrangement. I love my husband very much and will not choose anyone over him. The same goes for him. This- this is just physical. I'm lonely, and I miss him. Is there not someone you miss?"

White eyes morphing into brown. Earth bleeding into snow. Confessions of a darker past and laughter of a time happily spent. A heavenly figure greeting a new dawn with him, her hand his lifeline to reality.

Those same hands raising the dead in undeath to save his life.

"There used to be."

"Did she marry someone else?"

"No." The words were so hollow that for a moment he was certain that it was not he that spoke them. "She died. At the Argent Vanguard. Perhaps even before that. Perhaps long,  _long_  before that."

Her hands tightened and her cheek rest betwixt his blades. "I am so sorry Ryndan. I thought you were missing someone, I did not realise you were in mourning."

Was he? Could he mourn someone already dead? There had been a brief period, in the weeks following the Vanguard where hope had been nursed ever so gently in his core, but it had only taken one report of news to extinguish it. When news of the Shadow Vault had reached them, Ryndan had let it die without argument.

"I am no longer in mourning of her. More…I longed for something that I – that we- could never have really had."

She hummed in understanding, holding him close as if to absorb his melancholia. But it was without fruition. She was already overflowing with her own, there was no space for his on top of it. So instead of ridding of it, he embraced it. He allowed himself to look it head on and accept that this was where they all were in this damned place. And if they were wretched, well then they might as well be wretched together.

Uncoupling her hands, Ryndan turned, briefly lifting off of the bed. He wore a smile, a sad sort of expression that Feyen understood and she welcomed him to her silently.

Their lips met in tandem, catching each other softly as they absorbed in the new tastes. With some gentle manoeuvring and persuasion, Ryndan pushed Feyen backwards onto the cot until he kneeled atop her long form.

Ryndan had never been so close with a woman in such an intimate fashion, most of his knowledge on the subject down to second-hand telling of fellow soldiers. Marcus' words floated briefly in his mind, but he found he did not need to draw on these tales and stories. His mouth succumbed to hers and they sighed their content. Her lips are chapped with cold and so out of habit of his own experience, his tongue flicks out to wet them. A new sensation is introduced to him as they enter each other for the first time.

Their kisses grow deeper, their bodies writhe a little more urgently. Hands run up and down his arms, physically sculpting him as they cross his shivering shoulders and grasping at him as they run down his back. Emboldened with desire, Ryndan breaks away to taste her skin. Her jaw is sweet, his mouth descending down to reach her neck. A breathy gasp escapes her and fingers fly into his hair. There is a perfume about her. One of leather and sweat. The Icecrown chill has made its mark on them all but as she grows more flushed beneath his attention, he can feel it evaporating from her. A spot below her ear makes Feyen startle and her knee comes into brief contact with his already-uncomfortable trousers. He grunts and accidentally nips at her throat but a low moan is the unexpected reaction. Intrigued, he tries once more, experimenting a little and receives a far richer result.

They slowly become lost in each other instead of being lost within themselves.

Feeling a little more confident, Ryndan shifts down her body, allowing his mouth to reach her own collar. He is attentive for a few moments until he makes clear he wishes to go further. Her leather jerkin is corseted and he glances up cheekily. She laughs brightly beneath him and indicates for him to sit up. Instead of obeying directly, he swings round the bed to remove his boots, only to find Feyen very expertly undoing her armour when he looks back. Noticing that she has his attentions once more, and not without an unhidden glance to his trousers, Feyen slows in her motions. A long V starts to form, leading away from her collar as each lace is loosened. A small expanse of skin is revealed. She teases him, in full control and Ryndan is a hair's breadth away from shuddering at the sight. He is fortunately saved from this as the corset is soon undone and Ryndan along with it. His breathing is harder, his face and ears flushed for certain but he watches on unashamedly as this woman proves to him that she is indeed a woman. He doesn't remember where the corset ends up being.

A tight woollen jumper clings to her form and her fingers tease the bottom of it from where it is tucked into her leggings and she pulls it overhead. Ryndan is mystified as she does so, admiring her svelte body stretches upwards as the vestment is removed. Only a well-worn vest remains as the thermal top is dropped to the floor. A couple of moth-bitten holes here and there hint at the lack of layers underneath.

Gaze trained on his, her hands grace feather-like over the visible rise of her breasts. Her face is flushed with desire, lips parted and eyes bright with lust. Ryndan admires her, fascinated with such a woman and how a look like that is directed to him. She has him enthralled and he is happy to succumb.

One knee is placed on the bed as he looms over her, entranced by whatever spell she has him under now for he is truly enraptured. Without embarrassment, he places his hands on her shoulders and follows her bare arms down to her hands. They are calloused and rough from years of bow use and arrow-fletching. Her nails are uneven and clean, reddened at her fingertips as the cold clings to them. He takes them in his hold and presses his lips to her knuckles where the skin is cracked the most. The action says what he cannot;  _you are beautiful and I am at your complete mercy._

Spreading their fingers, they interlock briefly before Ryndan crawls forward, lowering her back once more. Leaving her hands to find balance on the mattress either side of her, Ryndan returns to her neck and inhales that scent of  _woman_. Her golden hair, now loosened from its thong, spreads out untidily around her like a messy halo and he inhales that too. Her natural aroma still lingers but there is a more earthen quality to her locks, the trace of a thunderstorm clinging to the strands and a slight essence of the sea air that they breathe so harshly. It excites him.

Gasping as he cannot get enough, Ryndan claims her throat, shifting at the sound that leaves her mouth above him. He follows the same path as before, returning to the hollow of her throat and slides his body down ever so slightly once more.

No longer hindered by troublesome layers, he goes further until her heartbeat is at its loudest, the pound-pound-pound of her chest felt on his cheeks. He noses across her breast, unable to communicate how much he is enticed by her fragrance. Her breaths are naught but little pants as firm fingers card through his hair desperately. Ryndan takes this as a sign to continue. He hooks one finger around the strap of her vest and pulls. Finally pushing the fabric out of the way, tucking it underneath, her breast is lay bare before him and Ryndan's mouth is upon it before he stops to admire it in its full, rounded glory.

Like him, the cold has had an effect on the woman beneath him and his tongue swirls around, suckling and mouthing at the hardened bud. Her pelvis jerks and grasp tightens in his hair but he does not relent, he cannot. It is intoxicating- the sounds, her lusty huffs, her legs buckling and rubbing between his legs. The shape is perfect for him to tease and taste in his mouth, her breast so inviting and desperate to be ravished. Mesmerised and hungry, Ryndan detaches to seek its sister. His hand replaces where his mouth was, engulfing and massaging, tugging and rubbing. The shift in position means he lays with one of her firm legs between his and the sensation sends him reeling.

His mouth works faster on the other breast as she caves and swells with his attentions. His hand is kneading more firmly to the other and Feyen is gasping his name. She is tugging on his hair and Ryndan is sent to such heights that he had never achieved in flight-training. His scalp, sensitive and now abused, throbs only a fraction less than his groin as his hips unwittingly jerk downwards. His own moans are harmonising with hers, muffled by the mound so keeping him hypnotised and thought is without sense. Her legs tighten hard around his own tightly as her entire body convulses against his and he continues to worship her pale skin over and over until it is raw and pink. Around and around his tongue goes, occasionally teasing with his teeth and daring to take in more.

He is not aware that her hands leave his hair until she is pushing him back with an impressive strength. Breathlessly he is ordered, rather than guided, into reversing their positions and she is soon atop his lap, clinging to her hips. Having the body of a soldier makes Feyen firm, rather than soft, and Ryndan only hopes he does not leave bruises from where he grasps so tightly as she rocks over him.

Receiving a taste of his own medicine, Ryndan is treated to the sensations Feyen felt thanks to him when her mouth attends the same route his did. Starting with a heated and desperate kiss, she leaves him hastily to suck on his neck. Heels dig into the mattress as his stomach clenches in surprise at how aroused he finds this. He can feel his blood pounding hard at the site of her attack but has no time to ruminate as she descends lower. Her hips slip away from him and he fists the sheets instead, frantic to find purchase in  _something_. Hair tickles as it trails down his chest, leading the way for her bruised mouth to follow. She swirls her own tongue around his nipple when she finds it and his back arches far from the bed.

Perhaps out of practice rather than practicality of remaining quiet, Ryndan grits his teeth and swallows his moans, but it becomes more difficult to do as her hands plant hard on his stomach, forcing him back on to the bed. With her weight resting on his thighs too, Ryndan has little room to move and writhe. He is sure his hands are white-knuckled from where he clings to the bed but he couldn't care any less as Feyen's hands dance down his stomach all the while her mouth is still committing sins on his chest.

"F-Feyen!" He gasps between whimpers. "I- I don't have-  _aaah_! Hmm! Ah- I- I don't have  _a s-sleeve_ \- !" A guttural groan concludes his sentence as she ghosts over the hard bulge of his trousers. " _Feyen_!"

Her mouth leaves his body for a moment and he almost keens in need. "Shh, I heard you. I have you." Those quick fingers work away at his buttons and Ryndan starts in alarm. Unclenching his sore hand, he grabs a forearm, chest heaving.

"No- please. I- I've never- not yet." He realises he sounds desperate but he must sound panicked for Feyen stops in shock or concern.

" _Oh_. I – oh. That's fine," she says, stunned. Ryndan slowly releases his hand and falls back onto the pillows, dragging his hands across his face.

"Sorry.  _Sorry_. I should have said. I didn't think-"

"Ryndan- _hey_." She leans forward a little to pull his hands away but brushes his groin in the process earning another buck. "Sorry," she chuckles. "Ryndan Firesworn look at me." It's a whisper but it's an order first and he has been well trained to respond to those. A high flush  _not_  caused by arousal spreads across his face, he is sure, and he avoids her eyes as his hands are pulled away. "Listen to me, it is well. I got a little carried away." Small touches smooth across his forehead and cheeks, almost willing away the tension that settled in his jaw in his embarrassment. He is breathing heavily through his nose and it is doing little to make him look less humiliated at his panic.

She sighs gently and Ryndan finally looks to her. Her own flush is spread from her chest to the tips of her long ears. Her breast heaves slightly from their exertion, hair a little wilder than if she had been caught in wind and over all looking thoroughly worked out. He might have been pleased at such a result were he not so wound up.

Possibly sensing the sudden strain bleed from his taught muscles, Feyen too relaxes a little – only to deliberately push her pelvis onto his. Again… _and again_. It only take a few slow rocks of her body into his to get his full attention, most of the arousal having fled him when panic set in. His arms fall slack to either side of his head as this – this is  _definitely_  all right for him.

Grateful and needing, his hands return to her hips, enjoying the careful wave-like motion they make as she thrusts down and up over and over. Their mouths are inches apart, noses touching as the intimacy of the moment overwhelms them. Panting soon no longer encapsulates the shockwaves of pleasure tightening in his core and he has to break their gaze to press into the pillow, eyes tight. Her lips once more attach to his neck and he pulls down on her waist with a whine. His feet plant firmly on the mattress in an attempt to dance in sync with her but he has neither the coordination nor the mental capacity to do so as Feyen increases her tempo. The groan starts in his gut, from the same tight coil that winds further and further and by the time it has left his throat as a translated moan-come-gasp, he his shuddering beneath her, spent and bucking. She undulates and grinds until he whimpers for a halt. His plea comes out as a near sob as his throat is raw and ravaged with swallowed whines.

In a movement perhaps more intimate than what they had just done, Feyen slips off of Ryndan to nestle in at his side. It takes a short while for his breathing to slow and his head to stop spinning, but his whole body thrums in the heat of he had just experienced. The intensity was akin to tinder going off behind his eyes and Ryndan swore he saw sparks.

He finally realises they are both shivering and has just enough energy to move them underneath the blankets. His trousers are wet and uncomfortable, but he was getting changed anyway.

"That – that was- " Words could not do him justice. They both realised this and Feyen giggled quietly. "Wait, what about you?"

"What about me?" She peered at him confused her brow furrowed beneath a sheen of sweat that Ryndan was almost proud to say he helped put there. " _Oh_  you mean-" She laughed a little louder this time, but not at him. "Ryndan, I came when you were being extraordinarily talented with your tongue on my breasts."

"You- you did?"

"Mmhmm. That was downright criminal what you were doing. Where did you learn to do that?"

"I … didn't. I just wanted to. You have rather attractive and desirable breasts."

Feyen stared at him agape before smiling widely. "You are a strange man, Ryndan Firesworn!" He wasn't entirely sure what to make of that.

"It's just odd- other men have often lamented on the difficulty of…pleasing a woman." He lazily traced patterns along her clothed back while she drew similar nonsensical designs on his chest. In a way Ryndan enjoyed this more than the heated pleasure of before. This felt  _nice_.

"Ah, yes. Um, not to …not to  _rain on your parade_ , as the humans say, but I might have already been somewhat aroused upon arrival." The confession was quiet, sheepish almost. Ryndan raised one eyebrow comically at her. She peered coyly through her eyelashes.

"Oh really?"

"Yes. I um…I wasn't entirely sure how this would have gone if I'm honest with you. I had hopes, but I didn't expect anything. I just didn't want to leave here as frustrated as when I arrived. My nerves were already shaky. It helped calm me down pleasing myself before coming."

"Which I believe you did anyway by your own admission."

He deserved the slap to his chest, he thought. But the rub of her knee on his groin? Not so much, that was just a little bit cruel of her.

* * *

The sea battered against the cliff without mercy, breaking the coast without relief or respite.

The soldier was much like that. Unwavering, unyielding. With each crest and wane, more damage was caused, more lives reaped. The soldier was without forgiveness, able to slaughter effortlessly to achieve the desired goal.

Word had arrived from the zealous Crusade. They were to make their way to the Broken Front, aid was needed. The Tournament was near completion, the move was soon to be made, they were told. The gambit was upon them.

They were ready.

A soldier, with icy skin and bloodied hair reviewed her work as she overlooked the village. A smirk ghosted across her face.

Thanks to her, Jotunheim was burning.

And Mord'rethar was next.


	71. There But For the Grace of The Light Go I

A/N- Reminder, or notice, that Orgrimmar was redesigned after the Cataclysm. Also I am sad that FF does not support strikethrough formatting whereas Ao3 does.

* * *

 

Dearest sister,

                                By the time this letter reaches your soft hands I will have already made port, rested and then left Orgrimmar. By the time you are reading these words, I will be on the zeppelin to my greatest adventure in Northrend. I will contact you upon landing- by which time you receive that letter I will probably have already departed my temporary quarters at the harbour and be on my way elsewhere.

Orgrimmar is just like the stories we have heard! When my ship pulled into the Durotar harbour we had to wait an hour for a cart to transport us to the city directly. The lands here are dusty and filthy, rocky and overall orange. You know me and my absolute detestation at the colour, it was even pulled by a kodo. I have a feeling it was either a young beast or Darrin lied to us about their true size. I wouldn’t put it past him. I had to clutch tight to my luggage to save it going off and that was no easy feat given how tired and seasick I still was. After a twenty minute (and uncomfortably bumpy) ride, I heard gasps. Up to then I had obtained the last seat on the taxi and had watched tiredly as the harbour grew smaller, but upon hearing exclamations surprised, I turned and saw why.

There were two large towers now in sight. How tall they stood! As tall as the walls of Silvermoon, I’d wager! My fatigue vanished as I witnessed my first zeppelin pulling in. It was nothing like those crude contraptions I’ve heard about from the Brill air docks. This one was Goblin-crafted. The main balloon was so huge that I would calculate it larger than the vineyard we used to sneak into as children. Do you remember that place? It was two or three estates away and we would sneak off after lunch to get lost in the vines and bushels. Remember how it would take us an hour to navigate our way back out? And our hands would be sticky with the grapes and berries we had picked? Mother skelped our hides if even so much as a hint of juice was left on our faces, giving away our escapades! I do miss that.

Anyway, we rounded the first tower and pulled directly into the shadow of the contraption. It is amazing how it does not just fall out of the sky. I intend to speak with the engineers or crew at hand when I board mine. A few of the other patrons in the cart shuddered, and I wondered if that was the zeppelin that was Northrend bound (I later found out it was not).

I had been so distracted by the large towers that I did not notice the gates into the city until they loomed directly in front. It is crude in design but well-built, I believe. The location in the valley was well chosen and easily defendable, that much is obvious, and the irregularly thick gate would not be falling any time soon. When I have finished this letter I will draft up a rough sketch for you to study, it is wise for a budding architect to be knowledgeable in other culture’s building techniques, and I think you could learn a lot from the orcs. They build mainly for defence and war, utilitarian and basic, but serviceable and easily repaired, if I am not wrong. Do not say I am not a kind, supportive sister!

It has been a few hours since I entered the Horde capital. We were dropped off amongst a bustling centre and directed to various inns. I have a temporary room in one of these local inns, sharing with five other patrons. Three of them are loud snorers, it is just as well that I am tired enough to fall into a deep sleep otherwise I may be awake all night. In the morning I intend to visit the local smithies and tailors- I need new padding that is more cold-resistant, I think.

It is just as dusty and rocky within the city, lacking paving and any form of street organisation. There are wooden signs pointing in general directions and I suppose if they wish to honour the fluidity of the valley offering them shelter then they conform to its contours. It’s a strangely… artistic way, something I might come to admire about these people so obsessed with spikes. I am not speaking in jest either, most of the buildings in sight as we entered have spikes and horns sticking out in asymmetrical patterns. Rooves are tarped with leather and hides I believe. I suppose the desert-dwelling folks have no need for tiles or waterproof thatching. Everything is browns, and oranges and reds. I am trying not to long for the beautiful elegance of our homeland, but I silently pray for something a bit more substantial and firm in Northrend than what Orgrimmar has to offer. Perhaps I will venture to the famed Dalaran; oh sister, what a sight that must be!

I hope they have baths in Northrend. My hair will not last long, nor my skin remain unchapped if I am to suffer so. Already the dust clings to me and my lungs.

I must away now, for my lamp grows dim and my eyelids heavy. Would you believe I am sleeping in a hammock? Me? It is unwieldy and I will take issue with my bladder if it wakes me during the night. I do not fancy fumbling in the dark to get in and out of this contraption. I am already distancing myself from all comfort to prepare for the journey ahead. A true adventurer I am!

My love to our parents, and to you, my dearest sibling.

Yours

 

* * *

 

 

Dearest sister,

                                My wish was unfounded. Warsong Hold is not comfortable, nor is it homely. It is an iron stronghold, all metallic and smoke. It is busy at all hours and forges are on the go from dawn until dusk. The heat is unbearable and a stark contrast as if one was to take a step outside. Frost nips at my face already and I am still quite a ways south. I may have to invest in a new hat that encases my ears without pain, leaving them exposed through the slits in my current hood is too risky I fear.

People talk about frostbite being the biggest threat here, but then I hear other whispers…

Also, this place does have a bath. It is crude and meagre; a simple iron tub, but the water does not get changed with every user. I have had to use it twice and I am unsure if I come out cleaner or not.

The zeppelin ride was nauseating. Four days on that contraption is enough to ask me never to make such a journey again. I did manage to speak with the engineers but their explanations were too farfetched for me to grasp. ‘Lift’ and ‘drag’ were frequent mentions, if that means anything to you.

I had stayed in Orgrimmar for two days while more answered and gathered for the Call to Arms. We gathered in the valley central while a fearsome looking orc addressed us. I don’t recall much of what he said, his oversized jaw did not enunciate well. Common is not spoken often here, Orcish is the preferred language. I found a kind soul on the journey willing to teach me some to pass the time. She says my “accent is not guttural enough and I need to lather up some more ‘hock’”. I have yet to figure out what this means, but I have learned enough basic phrases to get by for now.

For now we are amassing and awaiting orders at the hold. There are thirty or so of us, several trolls, a few tauren, only two other Sin’dorei but they seem to be a couple and I do not wish to third-wheel. We have made small talk but kept to ourselves. The orcs outnumber us, as one might expect, and goblins run amok shouting profanities at their co-workers, demanding left, right, and centre. People filter in and out daily, so I do not expect to make permanent friends. I have yet to see the same face over the course of several days.

While I appreciate the brief reprieve upon arrival- for that journey was as cold as it was tiring, at one point the rudder froze and we were bound for the Maelstrom. DO NOT tell our parents that!- to recover, I do wish to be underway with an assignment or something. I want to start my adventure! I’m wringing my hands, checking and double-checking my pack every night just to keep busy. Despite my knowledge on armour and weapon upkeep, they will not let me near the forge without a profession permit. I knew I should have studied it properly in Silvermoon instead of just learning what I need to repair my own itinerary. Perhaps once I reach Dalaran I can see if there are apprenticeships available.

I leave you for now with a fond farewell and a promise to write again soon,

My love to our parents, and to you, my dearest sibling.

 

* * *

 

 

Sister,  

                It has not yet been a week since my last letter and I have had my first taste of Northrend only to find that it is bitter indeed. There are creatures here like you would not believe.

**_< The following paragraph appears to be blocked out in heavy ink. It has bled through the paper with the sheer amount. It threatens the paper as fragile and tearable as some of the ink is still wet even now>_ **

My injury is not fatal, but I may scar. I feel like I have been officially baptised by the land and my adventure has indeed started. There are hostilities with - **_< more text is censored>_** so things are on a bit of high alert at the moment.

I came here for an adventure and so far all I have is a bruised back and even more bruised ego. I remarked casually to some patrons at the hold during dinner that the food I had been given on my missions were more hearty and wholesome than the slop served here. Instead of murmured agreements I received raucous laughter and they spent the rest of the meal poking fun at me and my ‘high standards’. It’s not too much to ask for a mattress, is it? Instead of a flat, rough mat to curl up on. Even this morning at breakfast, a few of them- nursing hangovers I saw- mockingly cheered at my entrance.

“Best not look in the bowl this morning, you don’t want to offend your sensitive sensibilities!” One of the men had commented. He was right, my slop was extra lumpy today and I had some cheese and bread in my pack that I could have instead, so I turned on my heel, strode up to the table and upturned it on his head.

“Correct sir, in fact it is cleaner than the water here and you stink, so I thought you could use it to bathe yourself in,” I told him!

Oh you should have seen the expression on his face, it was priceless. With a smirk at his open-mouth face, I strutted back up to the inn and ate from my bag instead. I’m hoping that if that man and his party are still there come this eve then I will be accepted, if their belly-laughter that echoed through the kitchens was anything to go by. I am not a glass woman, and I intend to show the world that.

I have fallen in with a strange crowd. There is a trio here, recently arrived from Orgrimmar. They are an all-lady group. There is a She-Tauren who says she is learned in Druidism, a Troll trained in Loa Magic and a Sin’dorei sister who wields a sword and shield like myself. They say they have travelled from Un’GoroCrater and Tanaris to see the jungles of Sholazar. I did not know there was even a jungle _on_ this continent! Isn’t that a marvellous thing? That such a land so far north can host a terrain so tropical? Perhaps I will be sent there and can tell you more of it.

They are a close group, though I suspect two to be closer than just friends. There are also two Orcs who sit near us during meal times- we sit on the floor on ‘cushions’- who make boisterous and unwanted commentary in our direction. Some of it is in Orcish however and I lose the translation. I am picking up bits and pieces here and there, but it is slow-going. People are moving too quickly, too soon, for me to make friends and roots with anyone. Some are here of their own free will, not answering the Call. I envy them, but this was the only way I could gain passage.

Included will be a sketch of the Hold, rough and ink-splattered I’m afraid, for I dare not waste paper. Commodities are a bit more expensive here and I would rather not waste. I am glad that our parents were not so mad at me for answering the Call to Arms as to cut me off directly without a stipend. Are they still upset at that? I hope not.

My love to our parents, and to you, my dearest sibling. I hope not to be so shaken the next time I write, I realise my hand has trembled with this letter.

 

* * *

 

Dearest Sister,

                                Your recent letter baffles me greatly and I cannot understand why my letter arrived to you in such a state. After some asking around, it would appear that all outgoing and incoming mail is censored by some third party. I am uncomfortable with the idea of someone reading the words I have for my family alone, but I am to understand that it to save military secrets and tactics from falling into the wrong hands. That is why there was no sketch found in your envelope.

It is probably for the best. I actually feel better knowing that you did not know what I have seen and witnessed. Yes, this is for the best. All you need to know is that my sword has tasted blood and my shield has saved my life. They were indeed sound investments.

There are important people arriving over the next few days. Even today I overheard a conversation between two of the orcs. Their way of life has irritated me since I arrived in Orgrimmar, for they are dirty and unkempt, but today I reached a new level of distaste. One of the orcs- a larger (but much younger) man- argued with his aged superior on the semantics of killing children. The hot-headed one says he would if they were of enemy descent, ascribing to the philosophy that they would just grow up to take arms up against them. In answer, the older one replied that he did not eat pork. Confused and irate, the bigger one demanded what the relevance of that was and that was the only time I found myself siding with the hulking beast. The superior stated that there was a farm outside of Orgrimmar where swine are raised. When they are fat and big enough, they are taken to the slaughter for meat and leather. To my horror, the older one grievously admitted that the sounds of the swine dying reminded him of the sounds of draenic children that have died by his hands in the past.

This did not assuage the bigger orc but I did not bear to listen anymore. I fled and rode the platform to the top of the hold so I could breathe my nausea away.

I have never met a draenei, sister, and despite knowing their allegiances with the Alliance, I cannot bring myself to with death upon anyone’s children.

I stood atop that tower for a long time, sister. Long enough that my hands grew blew and my body numb as I looked out on the flat plainlands before me. In the far distance there are mountains. To the south of me, the sea. And if I look to the east, I imagine that I can see my homeland.

I think I believe that I may be beginning to understand this land now and what it does to people. There is a brutal honesty on this continent, and it washes over us like a sickness. There are no parties or grand balls for us to attend here, everything is practical and on the go. I have never experienced anything like it.

The skies at night are beautiful though, and I recognise many constellations that you and I would watch out of our bedroom window as girls. I look to them now and pretend you are there beside me, making up stories about them. They are shifted, and not where I expect them, but they remind me of you and I feel closer to home. I hope you will do the same.

My love to our parents, and to you, my dearest sibling.

Yours

 

* * *

 

 

Sister,

                In the last four weeks since my last letter I have written and re-written it. I was posted out to a settlement far from any courier and have only returned to the Hold now. No matter what I write, it will be censored, so for now rest assured that I have aided in many a mission and helped secure the Tundra from further threat.

I have also seen death up close.

There have been so many people- both strange and curious- that I have met along my travels in these plains. Some are rude. I was speaking with someone one dinnertime- it is not uncommon to find new meal-mates whenever breakfast and dinner roll around- about the Call to Arms. They had asked why I was here, deeming me ‘too pretty’. Of course I took great offense to that but did not show it. Instead I placed a very strategic hand on my hilt and made a show of pulling it from its sheath. I then spent the rest of the meal deliberately sharpening it with my whetstone. Even in the campfire-light I could see that he had paled. I thought I escaped stupid Sin’dorei men when I left Eversong, but they even exist out here, I am sad to say.

Speaking of which- are you still sweet on that Doriel from the Higher Learning classes? Do you still sneak out to the lake to ogle him and his fellows at work on the dais with their tutor? I bet you do! You must ask him to walk out with you, I have always said that he was too thick to notice anything not written in book-format. Do it for me, your beloved sister. I expect an update with your next letter, lady!

**_< a blot of ink not blocking any text, splashes across the page>_ **

Forgive that ink splatter, I got to talking to someone mid-writing and accidentally fell asleep shortly afterwards. I continue writing to you from the morning following. It seems that in my absence to the outlying post that I missed another Call to Arms. Somewhere called ‘Naxxramas’ was in need of aid to siege against. I could have worked with the Argent Crusade! Instead I was out **_< three or four sentences worth of text are blocked out  >_**

Perhaps there will be another I can attend. I will keep a closer eye on the Warboard and a keener ear to the gossip.

I shall speak to you soon.

My love to our parents, and to you, my dearest sibling.

Yours,

 

* * *

 

~~\\_‘Deare/\/~~

Dearest Sister!

                                Oh how ~~th~~~~ that news plea ses me. ~~DO\riel~~ Doriel was never __ the quick ~~~-~~ est in his c/lass but to hear that he ~~wI \\_~~ wishes to wa lk out with yo u has ~~mad/~`~~ made my heart soar. I expect to hear all ~~\\__/-~~ the giddy and swee--~t gossip you will stIr.

When will he ~~__,~~ meet Mother ~~an ~\~~ & Father? Tell him that if I hear any mist re atm ent of ~~yo~~\/~~ you by his hands or w ords then I  will be on the next boat or ~~Ze/|~~ zeppelin out of this continent. U ntil then, you deal  wi th him as you see fit, you ~~he--~,/~~ hear   me?

Truly happ~~y news indeed.

I currently ~~wriI~~~ write to you on a ~~ bumpy caravan ~~acr--~~~ across the plaIn s to Dra --- gonb- LIg- ht.

 

 ~~__/~~ It makes for ~~dif~~\\__~~ diff ic ult ~~wriIi~~ \- writing.

Speak soO n

Your~~~s

 

* * *

 

 

Sister, I arrived at the main Horde base in Dragonblight after many hours splintery travel.

They are more militaristic that I have experienced so far and I feel to benefit from this. I believe I am sitting close, or even on, the front lines now. There are murmurs of **_< dark blots of ink censor one or two sentences>_**

I do not know whether to grow giddy or concerned at how it all unravels. Only time will tell. I cannot say much more for fear of censorship but rest well with the knowledge that I am well, unharmed and not living in regret of my decision to come here. I have learned much from so many, my cooking has improved leaps and bounds (I know! Me who is lethal with a ladle!) and my Orcish grows with my vocabulary and ‘hock’ every passing conversation. Despite fatigue, the cold and tensions, there is a strong feeling of solidarity for anyone who passes through. Wares are shared, food spared, shelter offered, comfort given, bodies honoured and services delivered. There is – rather unusually- a Forsaken priest who delivers sermons of The Light throughout the day. I was wary at first but he is a kind soul at heart I believe. I may grow to like him, he knows a lot of recent history and has a gentle nature.

I am to be forwarded to Venomspite soon with a package. My fondness of the priest may aid me there, for it is a Forsaken camp. I hear rumours that it sits in the shadow of the fallen citadel Naxxramas. I cannot wait to see such a structure! If the censors allow, I will provide a sketch of my findings for you.

It warms me to hear of your progressing and budding romance with Doriel. He is a good man, and one day may make a fine husband. For now, enjoy the innocent love and allow him to shower you in all the kisses and flowers you desire. Be sure to spoil him too, for men are just as in need of their validation. If there is one thing I have learned out here, it is that men’s egos are more fragile than anything a glassblower could craft.

My love to our parents and you, my dearest sibling.

Yours,

 

* * *

 

 

Sister,

I provide sore news. I cannot provide a sketch of Naxxramas for there is nothing to sketch. The ruins are crumbled over a desolate battlefield. Snowfall over the last few weeks have buried the shallow crumbs of it, but the main structure is fractures and broken. Much of the land at Venomspite has been cornered off, as the blast wave from the fall shattered the glass tanks here- and all of the windows and more fragile buildings in both here and the residing Alliance fort neighbourly- thus leaking some chemicals onto the ground. It has polluted the earth and there are not-so-secret whispers of abandonment.

I am concerned. There are other whispers, other secrets of something brewing. Something is coming, something big, and I do not think it to bode well for someone. I do not know who. ‘Putress’ is a recurring word, but I do not know what- or who- that is. Sister I write this for not only your benefit, but for whichever eyes scan this letter before it reaches your fingers.

Something is afoot, and it is not to be ignored. My gut is telling me to flee, and I may yet heed that.

I must away. A new Call to Arms is to be issued at midday and I want to hear the announcement from the crier.

My love to our parents and you, my dearest sibling. Next letter I hope to have much nicer news to report.

 

* * *

 

 

I did not attend the Wrathgate nor the Battle for the Undercity. I am alive and unharmed. 

I do not know if this letter will reach you, I suspect it will be lost like my last two letters seem to have been, but I will not stop trying to contact you or our parents. I have no doubt that many civil services have been disrupted in the wake of recent events.

In a reconnaissance mission just before it, I stumbled from a cliff side wrongly and ended up breaking my shin bone clean in half. I have spent the last three weeks in Dalaran recovering.

I hope that you receive this and respond with due haste. I pray you are all safe and unharmed, having a battle so close to home makes me uneasy and I cannot rest without knowing your wellbeing.

Yours,

 

* * *

 

Oh how pleased I am to hear from you! By my count it has been six weeks since my last letter might have reached you, and only five since the Wrathgate and the Undercity Battle.

The news of the death of Doriel’s older cousin and aunt saddens me greatly, please pass my condolences to his family for all it is worth. Their deaths were not in vain. The rogue cell has been quashed and order is returning to the Horde.

Tensions are high even in the hospital. The medical staff are professional and working together despite/regardless of racial differences but the same cannot be said for the patients. It is overcrowded and overwrought. I cannot sleep without a lullaby of screams and whimpers sending me off. A pockmarked night elf beside me passed away during the night and it was horrible. She gurgled and choked on her own- it may have been blood, I am unsure. She flailed and gasped, clutching at anything and everything but she could not draw breath. She died in panic and distress and my stomach emptied within moments.

I hear she was an officer at the Wrathgate.

It is not all doom and gloom. I have made a friend. A Sin’dorei ranger lies in the opposite bed, she is ill with Frost blood after staying out too long on a recovery mission, but she has healed well, apparently just having ‘been in time’ to be saved. Her name is Feyen Brighthallow. Did we not once dine with the Brighthallows at Hytherion’s pagoda? The name is ringing a bell but I cannot place a face.

She is beautiful and bright and a source of amusement for many of us on the ward. We have become fast friends. I have begun to teach her Orcish.

When I introduced myself, she commented on my name. “Grace? That is unusual,” she said. “It is a very Common name.” I laughed and explained that it was a nickname adopted from yourself. When I started training with the sword, I told her, I was all flat-footed and off-balance. It took a long time to correct that, but in that time I had earned the name ‘Grace’ from my oh-so-kind sibling who baptised me as such since I seemed to possess none. I should never have snuck you those books from the library. It’s bad enough you get human ideas in your head sometimes, but to adopt the language to the point of naming me that? What have I done?

She will be released before me. I am still attending therapy to gain strength in my leg, but it grows with each day. I no longer need a crutch, but my stamina has diminished. As I am not a soldier or suffering fatally, I am not given priority by the more magical healers. I have to heal the old fashioned way it seems.

I have now met several draenei and find them a peaceful people, if not a little odd-looking. They possess two knees, one of which bends backwards, if you can believe. I thought I had seen enough with trolls, but no, there are stranger looking. And yet, despite this extra joint and tail, there is a serenity and calm in their movements, their voices soft- but accented. I like those I have met.  

Feyen will be travelling to the newly-born settlement **_< text is once again inked out>_** of Icecrown. She says that when the Call to Arms goes out for it, to go there if I am well enough. She thinks I will be of great help and asset to the Horde and even the Crusade, who are rumoured to attend there.

Northrend has not been what I expected, sister, but it has not disappointed. I have heard rumours that Alliance settlers plan to make root here in the south of the continent; in the Howling Fjords and Dragonblight. I think, perhaps when this war is won and I have returned to you in one piece, that I might come back here to make a home. There is a beauty to this land if one looks hard enough, and I could show you as well.

Farewell for now, my love to our parents and to you, my dearest sibling,

Yours,

 

* * *

 

 

Dearest sister!

                                The landscape is brutal and the weather harsh but I am on top of the world! We are as far north as can reach and there is nothing but endless dark sea beyond us.

The Argent Tournament- for it is public now- is being built as a gathering point for Alliance and Horde alike and you might have heard of it down in our small neck of the woods. A magnificent stadium is to be erected and from there all will travel to participate. The champions will head on against The leader of our foes. His name is not ever mentioned aloud, referred instead as ‘The Lich King’. It is a chilling name and does not translate well. I believe it is the same figure who harmed our lands oh so many years ago and destroyed our Sunwell.

Up until now, ‘The Scourge’ has been the face of our enemies, but now a clearer picture is formed. I have oft wondered if there was a puppet master.

I have been here but a handful of days, it has been just over a week and a half since our last correspondence. The living conditions here leave much to be desired after my extended- though slightly boring- stay in Dalaran. I am so glad you liked the sketches, I was so reminded of our homeland that I just drew and drew what I could see from my window. One day we will visit it together and I can show you its secrets. There are copious amounts of books to be read, pages to be fingered through and many a knowledgeable craftspeople willing to share their work. You will love it there, I just know it.

My bed is hard again, though not as bad as it was at Warsong all those months ago. At least I have my mattress now. I have found Feyen, passing her by accident on duty. She works as a sentry and scout whenever the missions require her squadron to be sent out. She does not disclose much information, but there is dangerous work on the field and I have signed up for some of it, waiting to be called upon.  I hope it is soon.

Congratulations to Doriel on passing his exams, and blessed luck to you on your up and coming tests. Your mathematics has never been called into question, but I fear for your language skills with the sheer amount of spelling errors in your last letter. Were you drunk? You know you cannot handle any more than two goblets of wine, and if it was the strong stuff that Father usually breaks out for Mother’s birthday then I am surprised you could pick up a quill at all. Try not to drip so much ink next time! I hope Mother had a good day and she enjoyed the Dalaran perfume I picked up for her. Did your books also arrive, and the tunic for Father? Make sure he does not eat too much sweetcakes, I want that tunic to fit him!

The Tournament Grounds are abuzz with activity and I have found a blacksmith willing to apprentice me part-time. I have already patched my armour up twice, happily matching his standards.

I have also met a charming man who has made me feel a warmth like no other. He is a rake and rambunctious sort, but I like him. His name is Marcus and he is very dexterous.

Until we speak again!

My love to our parents and to you, my dearest sibling,

Yours,

 

* * *

 

Sister, I send this by private courier, one I am assured will get by the censors. It costs me a pretty penny but this must be sent untouched. Any letter I penned was shaken and falsified. I cannot lie to you anymore and I have gone to great lengths to secure this postage. My messages will be less frequent and briefer, but you must know of this. The world might have to know what we face here.

I have lived here for just over one month, in this hellish landscape. There are evil things that roam these lands. Cruel, frightening, evil things. I first encountered some of them in the Tundra, but I had no idea that they were the lesser minions of a vast, more ghastly army of ghosts and terrors.

They hold no morals. The skirmish at Light’s Hope Chapel was more than we understood it, it was the forming of a terse alliance with the Crusade and former followers of The Lich King. There was a severe disagreement of some sort in the south of Icecrown- what it is no one will say – and they have split, but things are not piecing together. The Crusade’s knowledge is too complete for them not to be still working with these ‘Death Knights’. I have attended a small handful of missions and barely escaped them alive. Others have not been so lucky. Many parties do not even return from their objectives. We cannot find the bodies.

Our foe is cruel and terrifying in all the ways that the closed closet in our room would have us quaking with fear come the dark of night as children. I fear for my safety and I cannot leave the Crusade grounds. All flight is monitored and I cannot find a legitimate reason to leave. Only traders or those with urgent business elsewhere on official work can leave. I feel as though I have been a part of a long elaborate con to trap me in this icy hell.

I have included sketches from memory of what creatures I have encountered. Should history ever need them, keep them safe.

And I am so sorry that I could not bear this burden alone any longer.

I am glad you are not here. I hope you will never step foot on these lands.

 

* * *

 

 

I have been here for three months now. Several people whom I grew fond of have perished. A Call to Arms was issued in Dalaran to travel to the Storm Peaks to the east of us for an assault on a giant mechanism of sorts. Anyone already signed to the Tournament cannot attend. We are contract-bound to remain here in training. We are so far removed from aid and civilisation that no one can leave. Several have tried, only to be rebuffed and thrown in the ‘gaol’ that they have fashioned outside of the camp away from prying eyes. I have seen two people return looking thinner and more bedraggled than before they entered. There was a brokenness in their eyes unmatched by any terror felt through the camp.

We are to march on a village in two days’ time. The inhabitants are three times our size and have trained drakes to assist them. Mother and Father was right, I never should have come here. 

Why did I not listen?

If we are to never speak again my sister, know that I love our parents and you, my dearest sibling.

 

* * *

 

 

~~Ymirheim has fallen. And- so~~

~~So h~~

~~So have I.~~

~~I left him. He called to me for help and I left him. His leg was open and bleeding and they crashed around us like thunder. The orders made no sense~~

~~We walked into a trap~~

~~We were BAIT and I LEFT HIM~~

~~His screams~~

~~They haunt me and I must tell someone. I cannot tell Feyen, I could not bear her sadness at my –my~~

~~M~~

~~My cowardice~~

~~It eats me alive. I did not know his name. But he was younger than me, he must have been.~~

~~He must have been your age.~~

~~And I left him- Oh Light what – why?~~

~~I cannot face you my sister, for I fear the disappointment and shame in your eyes and fear it will rival my own severe and judging reflection.~~

~~I didn’t know what – what else could I do but run?~~

~~I am so sorry.~~

Well done on passing your exams. You are to attend the academy after the summertime?

My sister, the architect. What a wonderful thing. Mother and Father will be proud of at least one of their children.

Yours,

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

To Sir and Madam Sunseeker,

                                                                I write to you as a friend of Celenne’s, not as a military personnel of the Argent Tournament.

I knew your daughter as Grace, for that is how she proudly introduced herself to everyone she met. I knew her only a few short months, but she made an impact with her fierceness, her loyalty and prowess on the field. We often kept each other entertained with stories and under any other circumstance, I would say I would be glad to speak with you after what she has told me of her family.

However she- in her final hours- has asked me to convey the events of what lead to her- of what happened to her.

This is the second letter I have addressed to you, the first was a false account of what happened, sugar-coating the details as to not upset you further, but I felt a great injustice to her in that article.  I write this second piece to appease myself and will mix the envelopes up so I do not know which one you will receive as I will only send one. The other will be burned and I will not know which you receive. If this is the copy you received then I am so sorry.

Grace – something happened to her. We attacked a stronghold of giants and I do not know why, but our superiors issued orders controversial. Two groups pulled out – and have since suffered consequences for their disobedience- but Grace’s party was not so lucky. She was ordered forth at gun point into a trap to act as nothing shy of bait. Only three of the eighteen returned, Grace included. She was off for a few days afterwards and I thought it was shock. I am sorry to have misdiagnosed that, for if I had caught on earlier, I could have offered her the help she needed.

The attack on Ymirheim put other events in motion. After several blatant treacheries of orders occurred at the site of the Siege of Ymirheim, others realised the extent the higher ups were willing to go to to win this war. People started deserting.

Some fled to the harsh Icecrown terrain, others to the skies if they had a suitable mount- or not- a small handful were accosted. It is not known is any survived their escape and I will not be treated upon kindly if this information goes public. As a result, to stop this occurring, Martial Law was declared as a deterrent for further desertion and treachery, citing capital punishment as the consequences.

But Grace, she- I wish I had known, truly. Her madness reached a new heights when she attempted to escape. She was caught and dragged to the gaol.

I managed a quick audience with her and in her disorientated state she revealed all to me.

There had been a draenei boy, a young teenager no older than seventeen, who she claimed was around her sister’s age on her raiding party in Ymirheim. She took to him easily as they flew out there and foxhole friendships form hard and fast in this environment. She had more experience under her belt than he, a green soldier fresh from Kalimdor soil, and she took him under his wing.

He fell during the ill-fated assault and in her panic and terror, she left him. It had been devouring her from the inside and I can only apologise again for not being a good enough friend that she could not confide in me about this. No words can express my sorrow at the failing on my part in all of this and that cannot bring your daughter back to you.

Missions and other business kept me away from her after the Ymirheim battle, but whenever I sought her out I tried to speak with her only to be closed off with stories of recent correspondence. She made sure to express her pride in her sister at gaining a place to study architecture. In the weeks following Ymirheim, she made the decision to leave.

With nothing more than the clothes on her back and a small pack of nourishment, Grace attempted to leave by the cloak of night.

“I was caught by an officer, addressed as a Captain by his patrol partner,” she had told me. She begged and pleaded with this man to let her go, attempting to over say anything the younger of the two was countering. Finally she threatened, "if you don’t let me walk away from this tournament, then I will turn right around and walk off of the cliff instead. There is a hell here, a darkness to consume even the most pure of people and I’ll be damned if I see it fully claim me.” I have since spoken with the man regarding this to get this word for word. He is much affected by his own role in this. I will not disclose his name for fear of further rebuttal than he has already suffered as a result, but he is of Sin’dorei origins and let Grace pass into the night on her way, hoping for a chance to escape.

She was found by a returning patrol and dragged back to the grounds.

I attended her hanging. I wish to say she went quietly, but she did not. She fought hard and fast, striking fast into the ground and dragging her heels. Her shrieks and cries lasted until she was forcibly clobbered over the head into silence. Her charges were read before a disbelieving crowd, few who knew what had occurred overnight until an assembly called. Your daughter has been made an example of, of that there is no doubt. Her execution was public and humiliating to scare everyone else into servitude without question, and I fear it has worked. There were a few shrieks when the trap door fell through and my own voice among them.

She became the first person executed on these grounds and I cannot let this letter go unwritten because of the grave insult it would serve my friend.

I cannot gain access to her affects and do not know if they will be returned to you. I have written to my family and should you need anything in the way of aid or even reparations for my part in all of this, then they will see to your needs on my behalf until I can return home to beg your forgiveness myself.

With the greatest of sorrows I sign this, the most awful letter I have ever written,

Feyen Brighthallow,  
Ranger of the Silvermoon Guard. 1st Squadron  
and heartbroken friend.

 

* * *

 

To the next of kin,

                                The desertion of one CELENNE SUNSEEKER, Argent Tournament Aspirant, has been verified as TRUE. This crime in violation of ARGENT CRUSADE Mandate, recently instated on the grounds of the ARGENT TOURNAMENT. As a consequence the person in question has been hanged in accordance with ARGENT CRUSADE Martial Law 16, Article One, Section Three re. DESERTION.

CELENNE SUNSEEKER, aged Twenty-two-and-some, standing at a height of five-foot-and-nine-inches, born in Eversong Forest and of pure Sin’dorei descent, was captured by a returning guard two miles out from the grounds on the night of the Spring Equinox in the Year Six-Hundred-and-Twenty-Seven, By The King’s Calendar.  The person in question was tried and found guilty, the appropriate sentence carried out the following day before a lawful eye.  

It is my deepest regret to inform you that one of my own soldiers- one CAPTAIN RYNDAN FIRESWORN of the ARGENT CRUSADE- let the person in question escape by lax morals and discipline. I regret to inform you further that had he taken action and arrested her as he was supposed to, the person in question would have not escaped and therefore only face minor charges for being out past curfew.

This is a failing of mine and the soldier has been punished accordingly.

Due to necessity, the person in question was cremated on the grounds immediately after her execution. The ARGENT CRUSADE could not afford the shipping of the body. The armour and weaponry will be redistributed and what remains returned to you in due course. As you will understand, CELENNE SUNSEEKER will not receive full ARGENT CRUSADE honours in her death and will not be named upon the Obelisk detailing those who have fallen in the name of The Light.

My condolences in this trying time for you and your family.

Signed,

General Iskra,  
Leader of the Fifth Regiment of the Argent Crusade,  
Officer Superior of the Argent Crusade.

* * *

 

I love you and I will see you soon.

I am coming home.

Yours, 

Grace

 


	72. Sanguine Seduction

You lean forward to inspect your work. It is jagged, un-neat and  _crass_.

It is unprofessional and clearly without skill, much to your ire. You thought you would be neater, more natural perhaps. More cutting and less…  _ragged_.

This will not do, but you cannot admit out aloud that you are disappointed. It would appear your assumptions were in hubris, and the uncontained laughter behind you fuels that injury to your misplaced pride.

_But the blood still flows._

It still does flow regardless of your ineptitude with a whip. The body will still crack and break when opened to a force such as you. Your back straightens at the thought, a smirk at your lips. The hands chained overhead have stopped grasping at air.

The skin is taught, pale in the dark, hoary with exposure. It almost hums with desperate vibrance as it shines sleek and wet. You – despite the – despite the  _heavy-handedness_  of your work, the crimson contrast is  _magnificent_.

Your gauntlet slides off with ease and does not protest when you discard it to the ground. You must touch it, it needs to be spread, to be  _used._

It takes four wide steps to reach the -

Fingers reach forth and you stutter your unessential breath as the warmth from the fluid  _tingles_  your nerves.

_So beautiful._

Your eyes are closed and everything is held still in favour of worshipping the life at your touch. You dare a – you risk just the  _smallest_  of absorption and you are not disappointed. But not yet, it is too early. Instead your eyes reopen and the haematic nectar seduces you on sight, halting your theft.

You smear it with one finger, drawing the blood across in a free arc. You join it to another lash, to another novice split. Again, you draw across and down, to a vertical stripe, coating the finger with more paint as it travels. There is a bizarre grid forming between the deeper lines and the superficial. You are aware that your mouth parted in small ecstasy, small pants exiting between them in your study, so enraptured by this…Up and across, over and down. It is alive and free, pulsing and spilling. You draw your lip between your teeth in anxiety.

_It is not enough._

Two fingers join the first and soon three are paired together to trace thicker stripes onto the wrenching canvas. The purple bruises make for darker backdrops and you find yourself at the base of the spine, frowning at how bare it is. You did not realise you had favoured blade and shoulder so much. That will not do.

Straightening, you pull away in several half-steps, whip in hand, plant your feet and take aim. Dark spots have dripped to the ground between you and your portrait.

The first crack misses, wrapping round his upper torso with an annoying howl. Adjusting your slippery grip on the runed handle, you try again. It misses the target.

Lower, you  _have_  to aim  _lower_.

And you do. With a singular focus, you lurch your arm and swear, finding yourself at an angle across his back, marring that work which you had just created.  _Damn._

You shift your weight and stance, arcing your body and strike again, a cracked shriek overwhelming the usual audible sting of your medium. The impassioned leather -It slants across his midsection, shredding off skin and sinew, threatening to expose bone.

 _Wrong again_!

With a growl you unleash a flurry, crack after strike, and thrash upon lash. You do not let up until his vocals are spent. The result is brutal and glorious, but you eventually found your mark.

Erratically hoarse with gruff arousal, you hurry forward to watch the raw waterfall spill down, joining the rest on the floor. It drips in little scarlet tears, hell it even  _pours_. Some of it falls directly off of the bare angle of the ass, following it into the violated crack before forming one continual stream below the absent balls. Some of the blood sidles down the legs, criss-crossing in shaken patterns as the bare feet struggled for traction in the puddle of piss and more. You watch as the fluids mix and swirl with his writhes, the dark and sticky mixing in with the cold and slippery. In his pain he paints, and the art is  _alive_.

 _It is fascinating_.

The back is fully debauched now, some of the muscle sliced through as the skin around it peels off.

Your tongue wets your lips.

The base of the back is not as beaten, only a few slashes decorating across when you realise that  _backhanded_  was the way to aim for it. Overheads would yield only vertical and angling across the way was too awkward for the elbow to twist to.

Yes, you understand what they say now, there is skill to be found in this, and you rather enjoy learning it. Creating with it.  _Living_  through it.

_It is thrilling._

The bottom of the spine holds your signature. This is your work, your doing, your  _art_. This is the sign that you had been here and claimed this simpering canvas and spilt your wants and needs upon it in only a way a true artist could. How long has it been since this- since anything but Starvation had been felt? You have to continue, you have to  _feel_.

With your bloodied hand do you reach forth once more, smearing the sanguine paint across just because you can, because you want to, because you  _need_  to. You  _need_  to see what it looks like. What it  _feels_  like.

What it tastes like.

The thought is so domestic you wonder why it never occurred to you prior. Unlocked, it is without resistance. The need is visceral, immediate and demanding, and you can only adhere.

The canvas chokes and shudders in his ironbound shackles when you lean forward to press your lips to a wound on the shoulder.

 _Hush_ , you tell him.  _You are doing so well. You are_ so _good for me_. And you kiss the blood again, tasting a deeper cut. It is essence, it is  _life_.  _So perfect_ , you whisper.  _So beautiful_ , you sigh, as though it were a secret to the world. The blood- It coats your teeth and tongue, hot and fluid as you suckle.

You need more.

You dart your tongue forward in an impressive gash cross his ribs.

The resulting shriek sparks something within you and you grip his broken hips betwixt your hands, lapping across the violent streak as the blood flows down your throat. His pointless wrestling only entices you further and you moan into your work, unable to get your fill. Your hands will form bruises and you shudder involuntarily.

The blood- It is warm and you could surrender to it for eternity. Heavy and hot in your stomach does it settle, globular and glutinous as you feel is slide intimately down within you like nothing you have felt. This is power, this is control. This is what you are made for. Your content is hummed.

From wound to wound you float, tasting and testing. The shoulder is gamier, the shallow cuts like rust. There is a burning residue left from the whip-leather, and you can tell the difference between skin and sinew.

You fly into euphoria when you stroke bone.

_Oh!_

You cannot mouth around it, so small is your jaw, and so you depart the body for a moment. The outer layer, flapping and shredded, catches between your teeth and you pull away with a sneer, only for the skin to follow you. Intrigued, you pull it again, not sure whether the hissing cries or the tearing flesh fuels you into further experimentation. With a firm bite on the loose piece, you arch your neck backwards, watching as the skin peels upward like a hangnail. You lean further back slowly, watching the hide tug at itself. Watching as it  _stretches_  and  _thins_  in a weak attempt to stay whole. It starts to split, parting like stage curtains. It is like stripping a fruit rind and you are  _quivering_  with titillation.

Freshly exposed muscle heaves and stings as its frail tarp is pared away, its feeble resistance to your desires for  _naught_.

 _Perfect,_  you mumble.  _So perfect for me._

Like pulling apart stitches on a seam, the skin surrenders in a limp, flabby ribbon, resting wet and hot on your chin.

A gasp escapes you and so does the errant shred. It slides to the ground and you could not care less. It is dead now, and so it is useless.

But there is a new tear in the canvas, wider, more natural, and more  _raw_. It is thicker and far more interesting in its broken shape than the whip stains. Here is a leaf imprint, torn from flesh, filled in by the angry sinew that had lain beneath. It is crooked and fat, glistening and oh so _vulnerable._

You grind the whip pummel into the tender space.

His head throws back in shrieks of rapture and with eyes blown wide at the response, you can only force the spiked handle in further. The runes on it are angry. You nearly falter.

_No…_

Your free hand travels up his naked thigh, finding its goal. Your left hand, devoid of the whip, grips tight into his totted, dull hair and exposes the throat.

_This- this cannot -_

His back is wet with blood, but sweat beads drip and form in his passion. Your eyes picks a bead that starts at your eye-level and follows its trail downwards. It slicks and meanders, like raindrops on a window.

_But it is so-?_

And then, almost in hypnosis, you retrace its journey with the sharp point of your dagger.

**_Fuck._ **

This is – this is unreal. It is  _overwhelming_. The seduction of his hoarse throat, orchestrated by you… you cannot resist  _this_. You don't  _want_  to resist this. You are heaving and feel dizzy-

To be able to control a symphony such as this, to know that striking two fingers into the deep wound at his hip causes a stuttering whimper, but dragging a knife point across this strip travelling up his shoulder blade forces cursing and  _begging_ … it is too much for one to worship and savour, surely? You are selfish and prideful with this knowledge.

But your gluttony is beyond the domination, beyond the breaking of the will. It is grander. It is the devouring of his – of its vigour, of its  _vitality_. It is the difference between shredding a body to the bone, and appreciating the sanguine seduction for what it is;  _life_.

And you need it. With it, you are more. With it, you are inevitable, unbreakable and limitless.

Your nails stroke the slits, catching and pulling them tight. You delve two fingers into his ribs and marvel as you connect to his lung. It is cold and inanimate as it should be, until you press in hard and caused a stifled cry.  _Ah there it is_ , the push and pull of life, the simple in and out no longer needed by your kind.

 _Incredible_ , you tell him. You must show your appreciation.

You latch again, suckling and swallowing, but your banquet is in vain. In your passion you explore and take, the cruor sating this infernal gravitas to desire. Your Hunger is fed in ways you never even considered and it  _yearns_. You will never get enough, but you can only take, and take. And so you do.

Until the blood sours.

Offended you retreat and spit, only to observe a blackening, a  _sickness_  spread throughout the clotted spillage. It mingles and devours the blood in its deluge, cascading to the floor in thick, oily blobs. It  _reeks_  of vomit and plague, thick and ripe in its pustulous form. The skin- the skin you had carefully crafted and carved- mottled spots spread across it, rapid and viral. Infectious pus-filled blisters swell and expunge, the discharge putrid and gangrenous.

**_No!_ **

Your portrait has become a still life.

_Everything is_ _ruined_ _!_

Enraged you turn to confront your saboteur, your  _vandal_.

Terowin smirks at you, his hand out and twisted towards your ruined corpse. His hands croon and conduct the disease that has destroyed the dislocated dead man.

"As much as I would love to watch you get up close and personal with the Scourge informant you were  _supposed_  to be converting and interrogating, we have received word that we are needed. Pack your things, Siphoner. We ride to The Broken Front."

A growl escapes you. Angered and betrayed, you grab the Sovereign Rod at your waist, hooked and ghastly, and shear it straight across the belly of the tortured death knight. Grey guts, languorous and rank, spill forth and desecrate the putrescent puddle.

Dissatisfied, you throw the gruesome tool to the ground and discard of your whip. Finding your gauntlet, you slide it back on, deliberately leaving the purer blood to dry, it's now-rarity all the more wealthy in your eyes.

"Now, now. Don't shoot the messenger, I don't think either of us want to piss off Deathweaver again. I'm sure we can find you a nice  _new_  toy to play with at Mord'rethar, what do you say?"

"Go to hell," you spit, aware (and aroused) that your chin is still sticky and crusted with hardened blood. It still coats your teeth.

"That is no way to talk to your superior, is it now, Little Sister?"


	73. The Broken Front I

There is a ritual.

Fold the sheets.

Pack the bag.

Read the letters.

Seal the box.

Ignore the satchel.

Don't look back.

* * *

The continual, rhythmic  _crunch, crunch_  of snow beneath his boots are the only indication that he knows he is walking. The route is memorised and executed without deviation. A murmur here, an absent nod of acknowledgement there. They know where he goes. They know he may not return.

Helm tucked underarm, hand resting upon pummel, in full battle dress does he make his way along this well-travelled path.

Passed the tents.

Enter the grounds proper.

Round the Stadium.

Beyond the training ring.

By the stables.

Cross the-

No.

_Pause at the notice board._

Flyers and sheets, wanted posters and notices flutter in submission to the winds. Tacked down and nailed, they try to defy nature to stay on the wood. Paper upon paper, scraps and prints are presented in an obscure patchwork quilt, thickened with months of old notes padding beneath the new.

Reaching forth, he pushes past one layer and the next, sliding them aside, not caring if they tear and flit off into the current. His iron hands tear a couple and shred one particularly frail note. There, beneath the fractured folds he finds his own, posted so many months back, his own jilted cursive recognised.

_Seeking an 'Edmund' regarding_ _Earalith_ _. Any information, contact R. Firesworn, Argent Crusade. A matter of immediate urgency._

Some of the words have faded, but it is legible. Thanks to the sea, most of the weather comes from the north at a slant. Here on the south-side of the stadium, the board is mostly protected from rain and sleet. But like his will and zest, the message has become partially corroded by the elements and tests of Icecrown.

Unable to retrace it for a lack of tools- and possibly a lack of caring now- he pins the item back on to the front of the board, a feverish sensation in the back of his mind mockingly curious as to why he even bothers.

Without a singular glance back, he about turns and continues on the well-travelled road.

Cross the thoroughfare.

Up the hill.

Towards the hospital…

* * *

Cool fingers press to his forehead and the Blessing is bestowed.

Ryndan opens his eyes and views his brother-by-brother-in-law regarding him with a sad smile.

It is a ritual between them, whenever Ryndan has left the camp. Lynara had initially insisted on his first couple of missions, but soon Ryndan deemed it necessary and desired it to be a permanent fixture. He was not a superstitious fellow, but his soul felt less heavy before attending these quests had he been Blest prior, and rather liked the momentary trickle of warmth that would spread through him. It was a rare calm he was afforded these days, much needed before the stress of a mission diluted and drowned it.

They shared an intimate moment of mutual apprehension as Lynara's hand lingered. With a grimace, the priest dropped it heavily. Ryndan rose from his genuflect and, with two hands lightly resting either side of Lynara's genteel face, imparted a solemn kiss to his friend's tired brow.

_Take care of these people._

_Take care of our family._

_Take care of_ yourself _._

It was all communicated by their actions and mirthless smiles. Their meeting had been short and brief amidst the rocking commotion of everyday goings on within the Tournament hospital. Unable to stay longer, they parted ways and left each other.

Ryndan did not envy Lynara, for the priest had marked that Blessing on Ryndan far more often than Ryndan had Lynara. These statistics were morbidly favourable to the paladin however, and it was not the first time he found himself grateful that the Lynara had been wounded to the point of a blanket ban on field work. For the most part Ryndan ignored the wooden crutch supporting the injured man, but other times he would send silent thank yous to it for saving Lynara from further harm.

His musing were interrupted as just shy of the medical pavilion exit, he was shunned harshly by – by a  _Forsaken_. And not just any. Ryndan frowned deeply as he watched Vandra exit the tent in a skulk, curious as to why an undead would even require a visit or check up with a healer. With a grunt he realised he didn't care what business a Forsaken had here and decidedly left all thoughts of his friend behind him when the canvas flap fell.

* * *

Ryndan's gauntlets threatened to break the skin that they dug into.

"This is ridiculous.  _He should not be here_!" The whisper was shrill and harsh, no less deserving of the situation that demanded it. Iskra, great and stern, was unimpressed and unmoved. With grace equal to that of any snake, she slid forth to deliver her poison.

"Hold your tongue, Firesworn, before I cut it out and  _make_  you hold it. He 'az arms, he 'az legs, he can valk, he can hold a veapon,  _he_  can follow or-ders," she declared with bared teeth. "He  _goes_. I'll 'ave no-"

"He can barely function beyond simple, menial tasks  _and_   _you know it_. He is not a soldier anymore, not since the Wrathgate. He has little communication and will be a hindrance because  _Edrikson_  – _one of our best soldiers_ \- will be on the lookout for him rather than himself!"

"I care not if he cannot string two vords together, he just needs to  _fight_. My decision iz -"

Ryndan exhaled a deep breath through his nose, exhuming a cloud of frost to match his mood. "Oh for  _Light's_  sake," he spat. There was a flash in her eyes that he was sure spelled danger for him, but Ryndan grew  _uncaring_  in his recklessness. She had already painted a large target on his back, what did it matter now the size of it? "Danila is better suited with the healers or the recovery team. Better yet back at the  _hospital_  where he can roll bandages and wash sheets and pans like he has done  _all_  these months. He is  _simple in the head_ now, good for little else at this point- the battlefield is no  _place_  for him,  _not since the Wrathgate_! You are throwing just-as-good-as-corpses at these missions and we  _cannot_  lose any more!"

I _cannot lose any more!_

Iskra held his steely gaze with a thin mouth and stiff jaw. With crossed arms and straight posture, she easily crowded over him, but still he refused to shy away in this. He was done letting her make worse and worse decisions. Bully him, fine, but Danila couldn't even defend himself in this. Ryndan knew the cause was lost but protested regardless, perhaps just wanting to feel some sort of petty aggravation at her. He had lain low since the debriefing a few days ago but it only served to wind him up further with her as more news of her 'commanding' reached his long ears. Seeing Danila aboard the zeppelin when he should not have been was the last straw.

Ryndan was going to die in Icecrown. He had made peace with that in the lonely nights, it was just a matter of when and by whom, and if it was the Scourge today who would claim him then he was going to fight tooth and nail for what was right. Even if it was on the home front. If he was going to meet his demise by Iskra, then he was going to make as much hell for her as possible, especially to protect his boys.

That he had also decided in the lonely nights.

"Ze boy iz able-bodied, so he goes. There is no room for soft-heads in the Crusade. No amount of  _imaginary_  illnesses vill get you soldiers out ov your duty. If you deliver vone more  _ounce_  of  _in_ subordination then I  _guarantee_  a repeat of vhat happened to your  _last_  friend vill occur to the boy.  _If_ he survives."

A image of two limp hooves dangling through a trap door struck him like thunder.

His teeth nearly cracked under the strain of biting back his retort, jaw aching with fraught tension.

"Your compassion has 'az no place here,  _Elf_. Lose it, before it costs you everything." Her sneer before she walked away cleaved and cut at him like no blade could and his blood boiled, flushing him red in the harsh winter air. His breathing was not in control. His fury saw no bounds. His anger- his anger impounded his gauntleted fist on the wooden doorframe he stood beside. Metal cut sharply into his skin, slicing it along the knuckles. With a loud hiss, Ryndan swore loudly. His distress and frustration was stilled when he turned and discovered a demure draenei paladin peeking from around some crates. Air punched out of his lungs and his anger rushed from him. Ryndan reached out a pathetic hand.

"Danila, I-"

Ryndan managed no more before Danila scurried away, hands fiddling at his throat, hooves louder than the blood shouting in his ears. Stones, grievous and weighted, dropped in Ryndan's stomach. A frustrated groan escaped him, his uninjured hand clawing at his hair in a half-hearted frenzy. He didn't care what whispered attention it earned him. He was nauseous with guilt. Had she  _known_  that Danila was listening? Did she goad him into-? No. It didn't matter. Anything Danila heard was from Ryndan's own chapped lips, lead on or not.

'Fool' was a title not even worthy to himself.

"Damn it.  _Damn it all_."

He couldn't even manage a smile when he met Feyen's gaze across the deck. He could only shake his head and walk to nowhere as they ascended higher above the crooked terrain of Icecrown.

* * *

The main hall on the Horde zeppelin was opened to the elements. It was carved into the main deck at a mild decline. It was here that the Crusaders, the Rangers, Valiance Expedition and the freelancers gathered for the debriefing.

The details on the mission had been undetailed and plain. They were going to The Broken Front. Given the civil turmoil achieved a few days prior by an unsolicited attack on the Horde party by the Alliance, Ryndan assumed that Peacekeeping was their goal. For the most part that was their role at the Tournament, their particular unit. Others, grander and finer-trained, were given the broader (and more challenging) selection of reconnaissance, infiltration or strike missions against Scourge or Vrykul. These elite few were often gone for days and weeks at a time. More than some have yet to be seen again on Tournament grounds.

Ryndan had barely seen beyond the hills looming over the Tournament in his time there. His only other sight had been the tumultuous sea directly off the cliff and he refused to ruminate just how attractive it had looked sometimes.

But this was a change. They were tasked with a mission and it got them out of monotony. The Rangers and Expedition units served as backup on paper, though off the record it was more of a forced showing of peace and unity between the two factions in light of the recent unrest. Ryndan knew most of these people by sight, if not by acquaintance. There was no animosity between them. If anything there was a shared kindredship, the bulk of which was made by fatigue and a shared goal. They all wanted this campaign over with as quickly as everyone else and found themselves irritated at their fellows who sought to hinder that with petty faction squabbles. Ryndan didn't blame them, but he was glad for the excuse to get off the Tournament grounds and was perhaps even a little excited to see some action outside of jousting and failed target practice of the novices.

And so here it was they gathered, officially to receive all of their required information. For whatever reason, the information couldn't be divulged on Tournament grounds, something which had piqued Ryndan's interest, but Feyen had explained that it wasn't unusual to receive the orders on the field rather than back at the home base. The word 'mole' hovered in Ryndan's mind after that, hanging there ominously with no evidence to give it weight and nothing to send it flying either. It was more likely to be a lack of detailed plan and more of a general idea until the eleventh hour, such was the grand organisation of The Powers That Be.

It was a bit noisy in the designated war room of the ship. With perhaps sixty or so bodies, some spilling out on to the main deck, personal space was lacking in comfortable amounts. Ryndan found himself squashed at the edge of it with the Stoneborne twins and Edrikson – with a timid-looking Danila- next to them. Despite his attempts to make eye contact, Danila had refused to meet Ryndan's gaze, instead solemnly fiddling with some sort of trinket at his neck in some nervous gesture. Ryndan grimaced, determined to speak to the boy before they made port. Hopefully he could find time after the meeting and explain that he didn't mean how it sounded, though even that excuse sounded lame to Ryndan's ears.

A throat cleared ahead of him, pulling him back to the present. There was still much shuffling as they settled, anxious for the debriefing to start so that it could be over sooner. The general crew of the ship had been weary, weather-beaten and even twitchy. The same could be said for the officers stationed about the room.

There was still some shuffling as newcomers settled in and about the room, with a few bodies colliding ungracefully towards their congested cluster.

"Move it, Halfling," a crooked voice ordered.

"Ocht, hey, what where yer steppin'," Eoin grunted, already irritated with his struggle to see through the crowd. Ryndan glanced over to see  _Vandra_  slink ahead of Eoin, her sagging robes a dark stain over her bony form. Ryndan scowled, not realising she had volunteered to attend.

"I would have avoided you, stood you taller from the ground, Dwarf. Perhaps we can fetch you a chair to climb upon?"

"Oh lookie here, who pissed in  _yer_  grave?"

"Quiet…"

Ryndan nearly jumped as Iskra's low tones punctured their exchange from directly behind them. He declined the urge to meet her in the eye in an act of defiance, to inform her that the earlier display had no ill effect on him. But he knew that she would probably see right through that, sharp as her gaze was. Either way a tangled, barbed root of defeat unfurled in his gut at his inaction.

When the crowd settled its murmurs to near-silence a few minutes later, Ryndan found himself finally paying attention-

-and regretting it.

Stood ahead of them, next to the Captain of the airship and two other high-ranking officials, was none other than Koltira Deathweaver.

A Death Knight of the Ebon Blade.

* * *

They were not peacekeeping at the Broken Front.

They were not retrieving wounded and deceased to take back to the Tournament.

They were not doing something, by all moral and probably Crusade-legal means,  _right_.

They were to infiltrate Mord'rethar, take down the guardians atop it.

With Ebon Blade aid.

They were paving way for a small (Death Knight- _only_ ) infiltration team to get in and out of the gate's main sanctum, to disrupt it within.

Those from the Crusade were merely the distraction. The diversion.

The bait.

Ryndan closed his eyes, hands gripped fast to the railing as he faced the mighty expanse below him.

The air was frigid and invasive as he inhaled, each breath a sharp twist in his chest as he ruminated on what this meant.

He was right. That which he had spouted at his C.O. only a few days prior- he was  _right_. Feyen called it the public secret, but here was the concrete proof.

The Crusade  _were_  in cahoots with the Ebon Blade, and not only recently either. It appeared their intimate dealings never stopped after the Vanguard. Ryndan could only surmise that the show of dismissal given by Fordring that day was to pacify the murderous crowd, to show  _solidarity,_ and _brotherhood,_  and  _condemning_  of what had occurred on the fields of Scourgeholme. What a farce. Of  _course_  Fordring didn't cut all ties with them, why should he? They strived towards the same goal. They had the intelligence and know-how of the interior workings of not only Scourge ranks and battle-knowledge, but they also had personal intimations with the layout of Icecrown  _and_  the Citadel. They knew about the major hubs, the focus points where they should concentrate on weakening Arthas' defences. From a logistical point of view, it made sense. Perfect Sense. And Ryndan- even without his extensive military theory training- could tell it was just clever politicking, sticking with the enemy-of-my-enemy. It was just. Good.  _Business_.

But Ryndan wanted to hang logic. Hang it off those too-new gallows standing  _too_  solidly at the Tournament grounds. He wanted to cast it aside and damn the entire Death Knight contingent, 'good intentions' or not. What happened on the plains of Scourgeholme had haunted him many a-night, occasionally breaking away to pave the nights for other nightmares; nightmares like Westguard, nightmares like Light's Hope Chapel and nightmares that eerily resembled dark, echoing cavernous corridors leading through Naxxramas. Of white hair bleeding red from root to tip, and a blank expression leaving him in the snow drifts. Of finally declaring himself a true Argent Crusade Paladin in a too-soon-filled graveyard before a name he was no longer worthy of admiring.

It all came back to Arthas. Arthas and his Scourge. The Scourge and their minions.  _Death Knights_  and their minions.

Ryndan opened his eyes.

They would hang. All of them.

Every. Last. One.

Those gallows would see their fill before this war was over, and Ryndan was determined that it be for only those that deserved it.

He would make sure.

* * *

 


	74. The Broken Front II

Dawn at the Eversong vineyard was warm. It was the quietude as the world still slept. It was the momentary freedom of being content and alone in the world when one wakes in their bed. It was the muted steps through the corridor as one tries to not upset the reverent peace. It was the muffled sounds of the cook directing the kitchenhands for breakfast. It was his sisters' mumbled murmurs as they argued for the latrine. It was freshly baked bread. Wafting spices. Scrambled eggs and cooked fish. Sizzling bacon and fried mushrooms. Warmed cider and hot coffee.

It was father's too-loud laugh as he fondly mocked everyone else's sleepy grogginess. It was his mother slapping away hands from the food baskets until everyone was seated. It was saying our thanks and welcoming all to the table. It was laughter and happiness and perfect.

It was  _home_.

And it was a long time ago, far, far away from him.

Dawn in Icecrown was not home. It was not even dawn.

As with most things in the accursed region, dawn was twisted and destructed until it was ruined. There were no warm sun shafts, no awakening of life or the promise of a good harvest. No birds sang their good-mornings. There was no chance of shorter sleeves and fewer layers. There was no looking to the sky between rows and rows of grapes to feel the warmth on skin. The only reason the hour was known was due to their time-keeping pieces and apparatus. They knew because of shift-changes and training schedules. They knew by whatever meal was served in the mess tent, whether it was labelled 'Morning', 'Afternoon', or 'Evening'. They knew by their own design, but not from the world itself.

It was thoughts such as these that occupied Ryndan. They kept him company while his  _own_  company shifted and huddled together across the deck, catching what rest they could before they reached their drop off point. And it was a literal drop off point. They would descend to the Death Gate by way of goblin air-craft, not something Ryndan attempted to dwell on too much. His stomach was empty as is and he could not afford to lose anything more from it.

A few work hands still fluttered about the airship, both above and below him. Their cries to each other were muted and muffled over the high air, but did not disturb the eerie impassivity blanketed on the main deck. If he closed his eyes, he could almost liken the clanking of spanner-work to that of a hammer tempering metal. The rumble of the engines akin to the roaring forges at the Silvermoon smithies. The-

"Odd place for a nap there, ain't it?"

A gnome, heavy-eyed and a hood pulled tight around her round face, stood beside him. She had a large box affixed around her neck, a lumbering suitcase of sorts pulled behind her.

"Just visiting somewhere," he answered morose.

"Ah. Anywhere nice?" Their words were exchanged with hushed whispers, as though they might disturb the resting bodies nearby.

"Home, or as good a place as." He glanced her up and down. No uniform or emblem associated her with any of the militant forces, and he wasn't aware of any gnomes on the crew, he didn't think the Captain was quite  _that_  progressive. Either she had a keen eye, or Ryndan was obvious in his observation (or both), but the gnome answered his unasked question.

"I'm a reporter. A photographer. I've been travelling about recording things that have happened in Northrend." She indicated to the box around her neck, and Ryndan then recognised it as a camera, something he'd only ever seen perhaps once or twice in the past. Her claim was … bizarre, but despite her almost-lyrical voice, there was a depth, a hardness about her eyes that attributed to witnessed horrors. It was a look Ryndan recognised in the mirror very well. He gave her a solemn nod, slow and meaningful, to indicate how seriously he took her admission. It wasn't until she relaxed that he realised how defensive her small stature became when she confessed her role there to him.

"The name's Lexie. Been about the Tournament a few weeks now and got the gist of most of the main characters hoppin' about. I've heard about you, even see you spar- quite handy with that sword, intcha? Hope you don't mind, but been wanting to talk to you for a while, kinda got the impression you're a bit of a  _wild_  card in the ranks."

Ryndan blinked at her, his cognitive skills slowing his translation down in his fatigue. Her accent was clear, but she spoke  _fast_  and there was a fuzz in Ryndan's brain he couldn't shake without proper sleep; something he had been depraved of for some time.

"Oh, right. Erm, I wouldn't- I wouldn't declare myself a 'wild card', maybe just a bit louder than others, but we mostly all think the same things."

"Like what?" He don't know when- or where it came from- but a paper-pad and pencil had materialised into her tiny gloved hands, no doubt poised at the ready for his discourse about the Tournament. He frowned. The enthusiasm was… suspicious.

He had to be careful though. A shy glance around revealed no one standing near attempting to eavesdrop. They stood on the main deck, towards the bough of the airship, much removed from the gathering of dozing bodies huddled together for heat in the centre. He couldn't see any C.O.s up top, most having left to either the war room or private bunks below deck. Iskra included.

And Lexie had asked that question, granted Ryndan the one opportunity just to – to let go, without fear of peer-judgement, or dismissal or looks of 'oh not this again, just give it a  _rest'_.

But despite the complaints and barbed thoughts armed and ready at the tip of his tongue, Ryndan remained silent, studying his interrogator. What if she was sent by Iskra, made to catch him out, to give her a  _reason_. Just a wrong word and-

"Oh, no need to worry about me, hun. I'm the real deal, I'm legit." Legit…equals… _legitimate_? Yes, that's correct. "I won't twist your words. Here-" the pencil slotted into the side of her hat, presumably over an ear, and she rummaged through the suitcase, a few loose leafs nearly threatening to escape into the wind when the lid popped. He was handed a thick book, full of thumbed-pages and scraps of faded paper. A brief look revealed multiple accounts, all in various formats and handwriting. There was multitudes of Common, even a few stories in his native tongue. All from different pieces of parchment, lettering, even ink-on-leather for one piece, all stuck together in some conglomerated journal. The few pieces he skimmed- and could read, for there was some Orcish and even some  _Taur-ahe_ glyphics if he wasn't mistaken- each detailed different accounts from battles and creatures, to personal letters to family and friends and even one detailing someone's  _hair_ - _loss_  progression. That earned a squint before Ryndan passed the impressive tome back to its collector.

"Most are used with permission from whomever writ the things, but a few have found their way to my hands after the writee died or something. I just want to document the war, you know? Maybe some of this can be used in the history books later on, so that the truth is known and out there, not edited or altered."

Ryndan found himself nodding again, understanding the weight of what she held betwixt the leather bindings of that book. Indeed, successful or not, should that journal survive the war then it was a rare, unique item she possessed, unmatched by any gold-weight. So tentatively, but professionally, she pressed on, formalities skipped in favour of more information from Ryndan. He might have been offended were it not true how pushed for time they were.

So Ryndan? Ryndan spilled. He told her things that he swore never to reveal to his family. Of the true horrors of Naxxramas; of the nightmares he suffered as a result of. Of the Unholy Disservice served at the fields of Scourgeholme. He told her  _all_. Words came, with a few frozen tears and huffs. Memories and names spilled from his lips that he would only utter for this once and last time.

And then he told Lexie of the pollution of the Argent Crusade. Of how they were forced into the grime and muck of morality, questioning orders and alliances and direction. Of swallowing their protests in favour of the 'greater good'. They wouldn't be coming out of this clean, or whole- if at all.

"Look at the state of them: the soldiers," he waved his hand weakly behind him. "They are underfed, under-rested and overworked. Heh," he coughed, wiping up a small amount of saliva that had gathered amidst all of his talking. "It would of course be so ironic if the Tournament, the Crusade kills us off before Arthas even gets a chance. Death by our own arrogant folly, believing that we're here for the greater good and all that other  _shit_  they feed us as novices. Irony at its finest indeed. But all for the 'Glory of the Light', right?" he spat bitterly.

He rest his forearms heavily on the banister of the deck. For a moment, for a blink of an eye when Ryndan looked over the edge did he imagine himself falling, hurtling and flying towards the ground in what could be a quicker end than the one he currently flew towards. But then the thought passed and Ryndan found himself firmly planted on the deck of Ogrim's Hammer.

" _'Dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori'_ ," Lexie- who had been very silent through Ryndan's verbal deluge- spoke very softly, with a – with a face full of sadness and pity. Of sympathy and apologies, and by all that was holy Ryndan  _despised_  that look.

"What?"

"It's er- it's from an ancient poem written in Old Common, or the old language. It roughly translates as 'it is good to die for one's country'. It's pretty much said satirically now, facetiously even. It much describes the attitude of many I've found on my travels- kinda like what you're- what you've been saying. Especially by those in army ranks like the Vanguard and Expedition. It's been called 'The Great Lie', by some."

And she was right. It encompassed all that he felt towards that which he was sworn. He was nothing special for committing himself to The Light. His parents, his family and friends revered The Light, but they did not commit themselves to it. They didn't proffer their life in exchange for their unwavering faith. No. Not even Lynara, his now-crippled brother, swore wholly by The Light. He swore by his deeds, and actions. He committed himself to change, and aide and helping those who needed it while  _using_  the Light.

Ryndan barked a harsh laugh, the sound cutting through his frost-infected throat scathingly. "Oh what  _fools_  we are. Fodder in the war machine, nothing but numbers and bodies and chalk marks."

Deep down he knew it was a lie. They all did. It was the feeling when he read about other battles and wars in history books; of seeing a number written before and told the size of an army and then deliberately avoiding thought of each individual person with their own story, their own history and family. It was easier that way, to see them as a group unit than as  _people_. It made it easy to depress and desensitise oneself to the thought that it might be them that's the next figure, the tally mark, and statistic. It made it easier to accept that they could go down as one-in- _n_ -amount, rather than as a person-with-a-name. Even from his novice days he was being prepared for this moment. For his death and what it will mean. They were told 'it was for The Light. The Light is still with us, so we must be doing right' and that was draped over them like a blindfold and shield while they were guided to the battlefield under the guise of  _honour_ , and  _nobility_  and  _history_.

And here, at the end of the world, on his way to sure-death, did the blindfold finally fall and Ryndan was forced to face the reality of their situation. It had been a long time coming, from whence Grace dangled from the gallows, or even perhaps before that, when the dead were raised at Scourgeholme with permission, or when they had been abandoned at the Wrathgate and Naxxramas.

The Argent Crusade was not doing it for The Light, or with The Light's permission. They were abusing it and claiming it as lawful to reach their end goal. They- the pawns, the underlings and foot soldiers, would bear the casualties of this way of thinking from their 'superiors'. They would be written home about as a fatality in a 'It brings me no pleasure to tell you this-' letter. Their families and beloveds would be fed the  _same_   _lies_ … "- died in the Name of The Light, and shall be remembered for their sacrifice." When the truth was that the 'sacrifice' meant nothing, got them nowhere and wasn't even voluntary.

It was a jigsaw a long time in completion, and only tonight did the final piece slot into place. When a Death Knight, bold as brass and cold as winter stood before them and issued orders like their equal  _or better_ , did Ryndan realise that there was no good in this hell. It was all black and no white. No grey, no room for anything in between, just the way it had always been; with black disguised as white until The Light could no longer reach them.

"It's a viscous cycle," he uttered. "People die, become a historical piece of data and feed the next generation to be brainwashed into - into  _this_."

"War  _is_  viscous," Lexie countered. "And hard decisions need to be made." Ryndan couldn't tell if she was honest in her statement, or arguing for argument's sake.

"No," he shook his head, glancing ahead at nothing. "People are viscious. They are cunning. They are cruel, and callous, and calculating, and cunning. And they will stop at nothing, not even their own guidelines of morality to reach their end goal."

"The Death Knights, you mean?"

"Ha!" he scoffed, clutching to his chest as he rasped out a dry laugh. "No, not at all. In fact I would almost paint them the most honest and upfront about their methods and intentions. No...The most viscous people I know are experts at looking pious. Don't fool yourself into thinking otherwise."

Lexie, visibly startled, but not disturbed, by his outburst nodded in understanding. "Yes, I think I can see that." He followed her gaze to where Iskra and Deathweaver, heads bowed together in low murmurs, ascended to the main deck from the war room. Iskra soon split from the Death Knight to start waking up the soldiers to prepare for drop-off.

He had lost so much. His rank. His temper. His … someone whom he could have grown to love. He had lost friends, and felt the chasm and distance between him and his family grow irreparably wide. He had admitted the need to abandon his moral compass and any respect he held in vain for himself had evaporated in front of a stone monolith leagues away. He had lost his path and now finally, high above the dusty clouds of Icecrown, Ryndan lost his faith.

"Oh yes, pity us, we dear and precious fools. We are going to need it."

* * *

 


	75. The Broken Front III

This was a stupid idea. The worst idea ever. They weren't going to survive. _Kill me now_ , just make it painless. No way was this going to work, no way in _hell_ -

"Have ya ever been to the Darkmoon Faire?"

Pilot.

"Er, aye. Once."

Eoin.

"Didya ever do the cannonball challenge?"

Breathe.

"Cannae say I had the guts tae, naw. I had just finished stuffin' mah face an' it didnae seem like the best idea at the… _ever_."

_Breathe._

"Oh. Well this'll be like a lot like the cannonball challenge-"

"Righto."

"-Just a lot less…safe."

Oh _**Anar'Alah**_ _._

Eoin blanched at the engineer as the harness was fitted tight. Ryndan's own chest heaving beneath his constricting straps. Were these too tight? They must be, he was being _crushed_. His mouth was dry. Maybe he could under the harness.

It wasn't coming loose. It was stuck.

He was stuck.

Going dizzy…too- too much air. Not enough breath. Sweat beaded his brow. Ran down his face. Ran down his back. Ryndan was drowning in the sky.

A batch of four Goblin-craft were primed for take-off, each carrying three soldiers and a pilot. They were the last wave, others already at the landing site as they had been for a few hours. The wait had been _agonising_. Iskra had seen his discomfort. Put him on the roster to go last while she had only disembarked a half hour ago. All the others had already disembarked.

They were _dead_. All of them- surely. This was too dangerous too unsafe too stupid too idiotic and ridiculous and-

"Just how less _safe_ are we talkin' here?" Eoin's voice rose a pitch or three. The engineer bustled around to make sure the other two soldiers were clipped in properly. "These gonna blow up?" he jabbered on. "Explode mid-air? Can it _land_? Are we goin' tae crash?!"

Eoin, shut _up_.

"I've no idea, these choppers are fresh built from the 'shop yesterday." The pilot shrugged. "They work in theory."

_"Whit?!"_

Ryndan's vision whited out momentarily. He was spinning and spinning and drowning and dying and spinning-

A loud whistle blew and all turned to the centre of the ship.

"There's the signal! Prepare for disembarkment! All non-essential personnel shall evacuate the main quarter-deck immediately!" He could see her in his mind from the previous lift offs. Another goblin stood on a pile of crates, barely visible above the nervous crowd, repeating the instructions through her megaphone.

Why is everyone shouting? Who- what is she _doing_? It's not _time_ -

Ryndan's vision jarred back just as the blades of the crafts started to whir in tandem.

Oh- oh no

She was waving a red flag, signalling the event. The pilot jumped into the front of the pit and adjusted his own straps and goggles.

_Ohnononono- M-Mother!_

Four machines clanked and wobbled, undergoing final checks as the rest of the crew watched the unlucky last twelve. The noise was cacophonous and many covered their ears as hair whipped about in the squalls.

M-my sisters! IloveyouIloveyouI-

"Ah 'hink ah've wet mah pants!'"

The furthest away chopper rose off the deck.

_Why are they screaming?!_

It fell over the ship.

A green flag was raised. The second chopper lifted.

_Ohshitohshit-_

It fell over the ship.

The green flag raised. It was getting closer, they'd be next-!

Nono n- ** _no_**

The third machine screeched over.

F-fuh _-fuck n-no!_

"I need to get out of this!" He clawed the harness- " _Get me out! Let me out!"_

"Ryndan!"

" _Please_!"

The flag was raised!

" _NO_! LET ME OFF!" Why wasn't it coming _free_?!

"Hawd still man!"

His feet let the ground, legs kicking wildly, his gauntlets failed to unbuckle the intricate device- he was going to _die_ - _he was going to die and he wasn't_ -

_"Anar'- Anar'alah, oh Bandu Shari!"_

"HOLD! _HOLD_!"

His feet hit the ground as his sight swirled nauseously. A red flag was waved frantically from ahead of him. They hadn't left. They- they were still- oh Light bless-

Ryndan sagged, his hands heavy and head dizzy, only to start choking.

_Why was there smoke coming from the- front? Is that- that's the engine-_

"Clear that vehicle! Clear- "

"It shouldn't be doing that! The combustor is brand new; I checked it myself three times this morning!"

"Get them out of there -!"

Ryndan's head rattled in his over-the-shoulder-restraint, battering the side of his head- his head rang as his metallic helmet protested

"- NDER ATTACK! CLEAR THE DECK!"

"ARM THE CANNONS! AIM IT AT THE BROODMOTHER!"

Wha- why were they- his feet!

" _FIRE_!"

The chopper lifted and without preamble, Ryndan soared over the edge.

He managed to pass out before the chopper crashed into the mountain side.

* * *

She wasn't as quiet as she thought she was.

Her footfalls were just too timed, too soft. It would have been better for her to stalk him in a crowd, not try to catch him on his own.

So when the assassin attacked, it was in a small alcove burrowed through the stadium. Partially finished, not bordered by any work-in-progress fencing, it had been an easy place to lead her.

Bart was experienced. He was experienced, and keen, and made no grand assumptions of being out from under Solidad's wrathful search, in fact he outright expected this at some point.

Escaping Dalaran had only partially scattered his identity. Chopping his hair en route to the Vanguard, and adopting a false name upon arrival was as flimsy a disguise as hiding behind a curtain with your feet sticking out from underneath. Your hiding place may be skimmed over a couple of times, but you were going to be found eventually.

Moving to the Tournament had been a matter of following the flow, allowing himself to shift with the current of which the other fish were being pulled by. He set up shop with silver words and golden coin with a fellow Master Tailor and found a niche in which he could settle; hiding in plain sight.

His area of work was in a corner; no one able to come at his back. His instruments were all under lock and key; no one could use them against him. He monitored traffic under a merchant's eye, keeping abreast of all gossip with every currency exchange. When the population was as thick and heady as that of the tournament, you became wary of all in the ever-shifting locale.

Everyone was a suspect, and Bart was an observant man.

She had begun to hang around just a little too idly. A little too closely. If she had been in the most western sparring rings practicing then she could have gone unnoticed. If she had adopted her own guise as a new merchant in a stall nearby, she may have gone unnoticed. But she had not. She had stood out like a flashing beacon of danger simply because her eyes flitted his way once too often.

He made the conscious decision to stay later at his station, the weather surprisingly mild. The lull in gales and snow had made for a safe departure of the Horde airship only a few hours prior and had blessedly stayed calm enough for his own window of opportunity.

His fellow partner bade him goodnight, locking up his petty cash and securing it in his robes. They each looked after their own bursary for services rendered and split the tax on the tiny allotment they dared called 'shop'. It was a good bargain, and Bartheleus did not want to jeopardise this venture. So he waited, and waited. The crowd died down, citing bed, or drink, or warm company in bed. The apprentices and champions stabled their mounts, brushed down their steeds and retired to alleviate the weight of armour and fatigue.

It had been then that he acted.

She was not in sight, but she was nearby. She had realised her own mistakes early, realised that she had stayed in his peripheral for too long and had left to correct that. It seemed an innocent enough departure from where she had perched, immersed in conversation for a few hours on end with random layabouts. But Bart was not new to this game, and the hairs on the back of his neck had not relaxed.

She was possibly hiding in the scaffolding of the nearly-finished stadium, aiming to follow him from this was so, then she had been exposed for as long as Bart had; and he made sure that was a few good hours.

He could suffer the cold. He was bundled in fur-lined leathers and a thick cloak. His scarf was tucked neatly around him; his gloves moulded to his hands specifically. Sporadic cups of teas and ales managed to alleviate some internal warmth but he had skipped on attending meal time today in order to keep his new fan in place. His bladder had not managed to wait and it was very subtly and with great stealth did he alleviate himself to the snow underneath his table.

Not his finest moment, but necessary.

And now he was leisurely leading his hunter-come-prey to her execution.

He passed a few more working into the wee hours; the forgemaster, the gemcutters and the smithies. He suspected they remained for warmth around the sheltered fires. Scribes took off early, he had noted recently, citing frozen fingers and needing to preserve these precious organic instruments that their life-work relied upon. Bart just thought they were stuffy. The First Aid station was empty, but not closed judging by the simmering elixir. They were always out in the rings attending minor scrapes and bruises, giving demonstrations and helping relieve some pressure off of the main hospital up the hill. He liked them, they always accepted his donation of bandages woven from leftover cloth with honest, warm gratitude.

A few guards were posted hereabouts, lolling and idling. Two regiments were called upon for the mission from the Argent forces, and some from the Rangers and Expeditionary Forces to bulk up allied numbers. Judging from gossip, a few freelancers wheedled their way onto the attack also. But with the reduced numbers, Argent militant policing was thinned and lacking.

A perfect time for a strike, in other words.

She had chosen her timing carefully, but if she was clever, she would have waited for him at his tent and ambushed him there. But this was not a clever assassin.

And so he walked along the northern leg of the stadium, only momentarily pausing to duck into the tunnel beneath the grand stairs. And there he waited.

If she was clever, she would not reveal herself. She would be atop the scaffolds awaiting him to come out. When he did not, she should investigate.

But Bart was not as clever as he thought he was.

He immediately doused the weak torch, throwing his back to the wall and keeping a sharp ear. Both entrances were in his side-view, but he couldn't watch both concurrently.

Standing still in the middle, the lone torch flickering weakly in the tunnelled wind, Bart was in shadow, his back to the wall.

He knew she had been following, his ears had picked up on the tell tale pat-pat-pat of a Sleight-Foot., only noticeable because he knew what he was listening for. He led her here to cut her off. on high alert for any and all unusual sounds and yet he still turned his head to the right when he heard a pebble being thrown.

He had taken every precaution, but in his cold, tired state Bart had not accounted for his own bodily, automatic reflexes.

It's all it had taken was a pebble.

There was a blow to the head; he was on his knees, his cache clattering to the floor. A swift punch to his kidneys and a chop to his temple blinded and stunned him.

Bart swung out behind him, meeting nothing but stone wall with great force. He had cried out at the blows, but a gag around his mouth silenced him before a syllable was uttered.

And he had a garrotte around the throat.

The scarf was padded enough around his throat to protect it from the no-doubt poisoned barb, but the force she exerted still choked him. Throwing all her weight backwards, Bart was forced into an excruciating curve, feet planted into his back as his noose drew tighter. It was with his head caught hard that coloured spots formed in his blacky haze, oxygen running out swiftly. He was also running out of options.

His hands flailed, catching on the barbs, hands clumsy and numb. With less and less air his thoughts died down to livelivelive _live_ …

First he slammed backwards into the wall, crushing her between him and it. With one almighty force thrown forward, he tossed his attacker clumsily overhead. She was small and petite and easy to throw, but not less lethal for it. The gnome rolled to her feet, the garrotte lost from her grip. Bart tore is brutishly from his throat and tossed it aside, his ruined scarf along with it. She was already charging at him, bladed and fatal.

And then the dagger slid down his sleeve.

She didn't know he was armed, so the puncture was a surprise. Her own momentum meant that she pierced fully on the crooked blade of her own volition, a choked noise of surprise popping from her like air from a balloon. She was dead by the time she reached the hilt.

Bart did not move. He was sick and dizzy dizzy andsick sick anddiz-dizz-

Poison.

The barb barb bab b- pois…oned.

HandsHandsgloves hands broken- poison

_Shit_

Fix it. Need to fi-fix it nownownow _nownow_ ** _now_**

_Ant-anti-dote_

Her body

Antidote must be

Body

_Shit_

Hands

Hands gotta – gotta fix -handsslippery

Sicksickanddizzydizzydizzyand-s-hands-sick-diz- _hands COME ON!_

Glass is cold – writing. No, no – no writing glass is spinningspinnin-

He drank it.

It was quick in effectiveness, the dosage barely a few drops.

He doesn't die.

The haze lifts all at once in slow stages and he fights his stomach to settle.

Heaving and breathless, Bart collapsed on his haunches, a dead gnome as his feet, hilt arrogantly standing up straight from its bloodied scabbard.

That was close. _Too_ close. The antidote could easily have been another poison, or an antidote for something else entirely.

_" Any decent poison-wielder carries an amount of antidote to whatever they're using in case they accidentally inflict themselves, it's just good, professional practice."_

That's what he had told Cersae at the Vanguard when they prepared the antidote. Bartheleus was only lucky that he was worth professional hits from Solidad; if an amateur had gotten this close, Bart may very well be laying on the floor next to his would-be killer.

He- he has to move. Spitting out the bitter aftertaste, Bart attempts to negotiate with his balance. The conference is slow and unhelpful but he reaches a compromise and manages to stand without collapsing. Of course it requires him to hold onto the wall, but he needs to let this haze bleed before –

A clatter outside startles him.

"Ah bollocks! 'Ere Charlie, come give us a 'and will ya?"

The voice is around the corner of the southern entrance and Bart is still standing at a murder scene. Bandaging his hand, he evaluates his options and chooses his cargo carefully.

Two loose bricks come free and Bart slides his small chest in their place. For once Bart thanks the pressure the labourers are under to finish building the stadium and is glad corners were cut. With the torch out- and unlikely to be relit – it is camouflaged for the moment. He displaces the bricks as though they had been careless leftovers and turns his attention to his Problem.

Blessedly she fits under his cloak. He can work with this. The blade is still hilt-deep and he thinks to solving two problems at once. He just needs to reach the cliffs.

Nauseated but alive, he straightens and proceeds to walk out of the tunnel in what he hopes is a casual stride. He is at least known by sight, so he protectively has one arm resting atop the cloaked bundle as though it were his chest. No one spares him a second glance. It takes perhaps fifteen minutes of shadow-idling and patrol-watching to find his window but soon he is standing close to the cheap railing so bravely storming the sea weather. Wrapped in his cloak, he throws her over with ease.

The blood has long since soaked between the seams of his dark jerkin, his shirt hot and sticky where it makes contact. He is sweating, adrenaline still coursing from the excitement of the fight and Bart worries for himself. He left this life behind, this coursing high was too addictive and not something he sought to return to.

He needed to break this frenzy, this fever. He needed calm and centre. Focus.

He was at the hospital tents within ten minutes.

* * *

Lynara is there, on duty in the Recovery Ward. He is not difficult to locate, not with his elevated stress levels and bright hair in a shadowed tent. Bart watches from a distance on the Recovery ward as the priest sits on a bed edge to tend to his next patient, facing away from the entry to the ward. There is only one other staff member on duty; an orc who was stripping beds and emptying bed pans by the looks of it; scut duty. The human he has under his care is sour-faced and back-chatting. Lynara seems to ignore most of the remarks for the most part, but Bart knows the stiffness in those shoulders, the tension in his jaw. Lynara is getting frustrated; his ears were twitching.

The human is agitated as Lynara physically tends to his wounds tight-lipped. Swift and efficient, his normal sociable demeanour evaporated yet Bart feels safer already. He moves out of the way to let the orc past with a bundle of bedsheets and continues to watch on silently.

Lynara is soon finished and stands up without a word to the man. Judging by the poisonous glare shot towards the priest's back, the two do not get on. Lynara limps into the next room to no doubt dispense of the dirty water and bandages, and Bart takes a moment to step in.

"Good evening," he lulls. The human is visibly startled. This amuses Bart. He stutters a brief hello and flushes, realising he was caught in the act. "Do you have a problem here?"

"What? What do you care, piss off I want to sleep." To prove this, the man throws himself over to one side, presenting his back to Bart.

"You seem to have an issue with your healer, is there any particular reason why?"

"I said piss off elf. You'd think with your ears you'da heard it."

Aaah. "You dislike elves."

"No, I dislike _faires_ , now _fuck off_."

Bart looks around. There are eight patients in total, and the rest are asleep or unconscious. Perfect. He grabs the man's shoulder, throws him onto his back and forcibly pins him to the bed, one hand covering his mouth. Using his weight and the adrenaline of the night, the man cannot move and his thrashing space is limited.

"Now you listen to me you pretentious ass, that man through there is a hero. He is a good, honest and kind man and who he does and does not lay with is absolutely _none_ of your concern. He is your tending healer and you _will_ pay him the respect owed for caring for a sorry excuse like you." The man's chest heaves and eyes bulge as Bart leans in closer to get his message across. "You see that crutch over there? That's his. You know how he got it? Saving someone's life. On the battlefield out by Ymirheim. He deliberately waded into dangerous conditions to save a complete stranger from freezing to death. He not only saved the soldier's life, but he sacrificed the ability to comfortably walk for the rest of his life in doing so. He cannot be a field-healer anymore, so instead he works himself ragged here to make up for that because he needs to help people. Because he treats people regardless of their race, affiliation, bedmates or otherwise. That makes him more of a man than you will ever be _, are we fucking clear?_ " A response is not given quick enough so Bart grabs the injury and squeezes hard. The soldier screams beneath his hand and nods frantically, tears prickling in his eyes.

" _Good_. Now do not let me hear of any discourse between you and that man again or you'll be seeing me very swiftly. In fact you treat him like he's a deity walking this earth or I'll have you over that cliff edge before you can ever utter 'fairy' again. Understood?" Another panicked affirmation is given. "Good boy." Bart removes his hand and pats his cheek. He stands up and rights his outfit, walking through to the storage room in the back with a bit of a dramatic stride.

Lynara starts around when the door opens and closes. Bart winces, realising he's still riding high on excitement and had announced himself too loudly.

"Bartheleus!"

"High Healer Dawnstrider," he drolls casually leaning against the wall arms crossed. "I see you are very busy this night?" Lynara's face sours and he shoots a look to the door.

"Not so much now that the last of the rounds have finished. It's just monitoring and updating records until the next round in an hour. Unless someone else comes in. But first," he turns back to the work station. "I have to finish up with this cleaning and then I've to powder some herbs, we're running low on poultices and this herb is the base for them all so it needs grinding." It all came out in a rush of breath and is shoulders hunched up more and more. His blond hair had loosened from its long plait and attributed to his harassed demeanour. There were some stains on his smock, despite the plain apron he had on his front. "And most of the patients are easy enough to deal with but that- that one." He pointed again to the door. "He's just _irritating_." He grabbed a jar from the layers of shelves above him and threw some contents into the mortar. "We've had him in before," the pestle starts to grind the herbs. "And he's always picked a fight with me until –", the pestle picks up in force and speed. "Until some other healer has to step in because he cannot stand me! Hah- unfortunately for him I was the only one on tonight." Lynara continues in his fierce grinding. "I haven't seen my tent in nearly a day, I haven't properly washed in nearly that long. And I'm _hungry_.

"Twelve healers have been taken to the Front. _Twelve_. Any spare are over in the Treatment and Triage tents, the rest sleeping since they were dead on their feet. That has left two of us to run the ward and I think Krontek is about ready to pass out himself."

Bart can see that the herbs have been crushed and he reaches a hand forward before they are overdone. Lynara sags at the touch, his grip going limp. Bart doesn't know if he means to lean back into his space. "I'm sorry, I'm just tired. And worried. Ryndan left earlier today and that never sits well with me until he's returned."

"I know," Bart whispers behind him. He takes the hand away from Lynara's now-stilled ones and stands at his back directly. He undoes the leather thong at the end of the plait and teases out each braid until his crinkled hair lays spread across his shoulders. "Tell me about your day," he softly commands. Using his long fingers, he begins to comb through.

"Nothing unusual. Traffic has been quite low. I couldn't do much to aid," he pauses to hum as Bart continues to brush. "To aid the loading of medical cargo to the – to the airship," he sighs. Any tots found are negotiated with gently until the platinum mass is free and flowing. He pulls his hands gently along the hair from shoulder to tip, repeating the process.

"And what else?" Bart nudges. He delicately gathers the hair into a tail at the base of Lynara's neck- the priest has resorted to soft hums and breaths as a form of communication- and splits it into three individual tails.

"Ahm, I er… I Blessed Ryndan before he left. It's- it's the only thing I can do." Re-braiding does not take long, but Bart slows it down to enjoy the rare intimacy here. His heart is beating frantically in contrast to the delicacy of the moment, but he focuses on twisting one tail around the others until a straight, fresh plain hands central down the broad back. Tying it off with the thong, he drifts his hands along under the ribs and settles on Lynara's hips.

"I'm sure he appreciates it," Bart whispers. Lynara hums again and leans into him until they are flush and takes his own hands-

"What is this?" the moment is lost as Lynara holds up his injured palm. A scrap from his tattered scarf is wrapped around it in a crude bandage.

"A scissor mishap, nothing to – what are you doing?" Lynara pulled away to collect items from the shelf.

"Ridiculous. Cannot leave either of you alone for five minutes," he muttered, adding some oil drops to a bowl of clean water. He threw a rag over his shoulder at Bart. "Take the bandage off and start cleaning, I have to go get some gut for sutures." His face had darkened as he bossed the older man around and Bart could only chuckle in endearment. Lynara left the room muttering, the door swinging shut and Bart moved in to the cramped workspace. He had to lean tilted to one side as the oil lamp hung by his temple. Doing as he was ordered, he supposed that Lynara never had to worry about the light as he was shorter.

The water stung as Bart treated the torn palm. It was more jagged than he remembered and knew Lynara was going to become sceptical upon observation. He hissed as the warm treatment filtered into his exposed muscle and cleansed it of the lingering toxin. At least the bleeding had stopped. Lynara had yet to return and so Bart tidied up, folding cloth and replacing jars that still lay strewn across the wooden table. The scripts on the labels varied; some where legible and others…not so much. He managed to guess that the order of the shelves around him were alphabetical by the way of Common and managed to place most of them back correctly. By the time Lynara did return, the place was looking much more organised.

"I'm sorry I'll be right with you – Dunrok was thrashing, he's a little feverish and complaining about a smell- did you tidy up?" Lynara stopped in his rush to admire the work. Bart stood aside almost awkwardly as Lynara turned to him with- with such a face of wonder that Bart nearly flushed in embarrassment like he could never recall in his life. Their eyes locked and the moment stretched-

-until a cough on the ward snapped Lynara back to seriousness and he pulled out the freshly ground poultice base.

"Just need a pinch- this should help," he muttered collecting the ingredients.

"How bad a fever?"

"Minor, but I'd like to bring him down. It's not dangerous."

"Very well." He grabbed enough cloth for his purpose and left the tent. When he came back a few minutes later , the cloth was tied in a neat bundle and Lynara rest beside the sweating orc. He placed the bag of snow on his forehead as Lynara worked his fingers over the orc's sternum. A soft light was glowing from them. Upon seeing the bag, Lynara gave him that look again.

"His chest is a little ah- erm," he swore in Thalassian and passed a hand over his face. "What's the word? Full?"

Bart nodded, "I understand your meaning." Slightly flustered by the attention Lynara was paying him , Bart retreated to the storeroom to tidy up what little mess they had created. Lynara did not take long to join him. He was still limping, the crutch in a forgotten corner of the ward. Bart imagined it was often like this for the priest, so busy that the crutch was oft made redundant to make way for the use of both of his hands. There was nothing to do now, the area was clean and tidied, the rounds finished for this hour. They should have parted ways. Instead Lynara stood by the wooden door, regarding him.

"Sit on the stool," Bart was instructed. Under the workspace was a four-legged item, battered and a bit uneven. He pulled it out and sat. Lynara walked over, his expression tired and eyes keen, and picked up Bart's injured hand.

"Hmm. Some strangely – shaped scissors," he remarked. Bart winced for the second time that evening. Lynara placed one foot on the rung of his stool and hoisted himself up to sit on the workspace, shifting until he was comfortable. He indicated for Bart to shuffle forward and that's what he did.

Pulling a needle and gut from out under his apron, Lynara placed Bart's hand in his lap and attended it.

"Are you in any immediate danger?" Lynara asked, eyes focused on the task before him, voice neutral. Bart withheld the urge to sigh. Of course Lynara put two and two together.

"Not for a few days perhaps. She will have had a check-in time and when that finally reaches her handlers, they will probably send someone else. That could take a while to organise depending on who they want and if they need to be called in from elsewhere." Lynara's grip tightened around his wrist. Lynara was not stupid, he was never stupid. When Bart had asked Lynara to publicly refer to him as 'Halthelus', the priest had furrowed his brow and said 'very well.' While this was the most major incident to have occurred to Bart in a while, other smaller, minor mishaps had befallen him both here and at the Vanguard. Now that he had been definitively identified, things were on the edge of heating up. Lynara had always been perceptive, but respected that Bart didn't tell him for a reason about what troubled him. In this case- Solidad and his lackeys. Lynara did not need to know how far Bart had fallen in Dalaran, of what he had done. Despite whatever conclusions or assumptions Lynara had drawn regarding the situation, he had kept them to himself and treated Bart with fondness and friendship.

Bart could only grow to care for him more as he realised this. And instead of rejecting the friendship offered by the sin'dorei as he might have done a few months ago, he instead embraced it and held tight.

The last suture was pulled and tied off. With a delicacy not given to the human on the ward, Lynara wrapped a clean bandage across the wound. When it was secure, he turned the palm over, and brought the knuckles to his lips. They lingered like that for a moment before Lynara made to gently release, but something had sparked in Bart. Something that had tried to spark over, and over for the last few weeks only for it to be extinguished by reason or guilt.

Emboldened by his high, Bart stood abruptly and moved between the priest's swinging legs.

"Bart! What are you-" He cannot finish for Bart has pulled Lynara in close and pressed his mouth to his. It elates Bart how pliant Lynara falls into his arms, initially surprised but quickly responding with fervour to rival his own. Bart does not linger too long, pressing just two kisses, and pulls back long enough to admire the flush painted across Lynara's face.

"I erm-" Bart laughs at Lynara's inability to speak. Brushing some loose blond strands behind Lynara's ear, he smiles widely.

"I wanted- I just came here to see you this evening. I just wanted to see you," he whispered.

"And – and more it seems!"

"That was not planned."

It is Lynara's turn to laugh.. "I won't lie Bartheleus, I've needed you to do that to me for a while now. In fact, I'd _really_ like another." Bart grins as a hand sneaks round his neck to pull him forward. Bart's mind is shouting in all emotions high and flying, words shouting ' _yes'_ and 'finally!' until they have to pause for breath.

Lynara pants a little, one hand still at the base of Bart's skull, the other gripping his arm tight to keep him knees are tight around Bart's hips, ankles hooked around his boots. "Light knows how much I've needed you to do that."

Bart stumbles, surprised. "You – you have?" The hand at the back of his neck curves round to his cheek. Bart can feel it; dry, calloused and still cool.

" _Yes_ , but you did not seem ready and I did not want to upset you." It was true. If he could help it, after their shared sleeping quarters in the Vanguard, Bartheleus had kept his hands to himself, scared to bruise or hurt again. But Lynara kept turning up, and coaxing and talking until Bart understood that Lynara seemed to understand something about him. About his guilt. About his fears.

Bart has to take a moment to compose himself. Though he had come here with the intention of just calming down in Lynara's presence, the situation had suddenly become so much more weighted and Bart no longer felt tall and mighty as he had up until entering this room. He felt small and humble in the presence of something noble, something grand. And this – this man had never treated him with anything less than respect despite the – their history.

"I- You are correct. What I did- I -, " he swallows. "I did not feel worthy of your affection, of _you_ , of your friendship and companionship. And yet you still offer it freely. To _me_." He pulls back a little to take Lynara's hands into his own. He squeezes them, pale and long in the middle of a darker shell. "I thought it was wrong to want you _after_." He releases one hand to delve into the breast pocket. From forth he brings out the ebonweave flower, slightly pressed but still whole. He hears Lynara releases a puff of breath. "But then I tell myself every night that salvation was created for sinners, and now it's finally sunk in. I think you might be my salvation." He risks a glance up and sees not a composed, understanding look of compassion, but instead a flustered, watery-eyed look of adoration. It was that look again. And now Bart thinks he could live for it.

"Bartheleus," is all Lynara whispers before cups a hand to the back of his neck and pulls him forward.

The kiss is sweet and timid, made of promises and gentility and everything that Bart needs. He is not forgiven, but he can be saved. He is ready to be saved now. He wants to be for Lynara- for them both.

When the separate they cannot bear to be apart and so lean their foreheads together. Bart chuckles under his breath.

"What?" Lynara asks startled. His apron is tousled and the earlier instruments have been knocked over to one side, but it seems that Bart did not realise where he had put his hands in their connection. Strands, long and disturbed, have tumbled forth and framed the cheeks still glowing pink.

"I think I need to do your hair again."

Lynara's laugh is golden and Bart forgets what it is to fear.

* * *

He remembered to breathe- and then he remembered everything else.

A high-pitched whine cuts through him without pause. It _tears_ and _claws_ at his senses, origins unknown, like nails on a chalkboard. A blacksmith's hammer tempered upon his skull.

Clang.

_Clang_.

**_Clang_**.

Cold whips through his skin. Aches throbbed in all the wrong places, and his distress was high his breathing was shallow his head was _pounding_ his blood was pumping his friends were-

Icecrown.

The Tournament.

The training…tents…nightshift…thedebrief…Iskra-Edrikson-Danila-Lynara-the ship-Koltira-

The chopper-

He fell off the ship.

"Oh hell," he gargled, further scrunching his eyes. Thump. _Thump_. **Thump**. _Screeech_.

"That's one way to put it," a voice cut through in accented Common. It chuckled darkly. Ryndan argued with his body to turn his neck and found a Tauren shaman kneeling over him. Her movements rattled with wooden bracelets and charms, something he normally would have found soothing. Now it grated on him in his sensory overload. It was a few moments yet before he could compose himself past his stress and pain to analyse the first few feet of his surroundings.

He was on the ground, flat. Decidedly _not_ on the death trap anymore. She was recognisable, the healer, most likely from the hospital when he visited Lynara. Name? Name … name…Me- May- Mah- something. He couldn't recall. She lay her heavy hand on his bare forehead and relief spread through him like a warm blanket being draped upon his broken body. A sigh that he was sure bordered on inappropriate escaped him. "That is some unkind ear hurt you suffer there," she hissed sympathetically, sitting back. He missed the contact immediately.

"Mmm," he groaned, pulling himself to sitting. Everything spanandspanandspan-. He cradled his head, covered his ear in an attempt to cut through the _constant high pitch_. "Cannon fire. Vanguard." _What was making that Light-forsaken whining sound?_

"Unfortunate- I think that ringing will be with you a while. The crash seems to have made it worse. Can you tell me your name?"

"Firesworn. Ryndan- L-Lieutenant Commander." Oh Anar' _alar_ would everything just sit still and stop that infernal _ringing_?!

"Nice try _Captain_ , don't need to impress me," her strong hand clapped his shoulder epaulettes kindly. "I need you to open your eyes Captain. Come now and let me see the hurt." His head lolled back an ounce too quick at the request and blades of light pierced his irises to the core of his mind. An explosion at where his head used to be tears a cry from him and oblivion seizes him with the force of a storm. It's an eternity later that he realises he is being held down in his thrashing, his chest forcing great clouds of breath from his dry mouth. The storm has passed, clarity formed.

His healer removes her hand from his crown, and his lungs calm in their heaving panic. He admires her with silent wonder. She is exhausted, sheening with sweat in this frozen landscape, but she is attentive.

"T-thank you," he spills. He is rewarded with a tired smile.

"Can you stand? We have to regroup with the rest up the hill."

"Yeah just- ha- _hmm_ ," he strained as he sat up again. "J-just give me a moment." He pressed his palm to his ear in an effort to rid of the pitch once more, but it was subtle, underlying and _just_ out of reach. It seems her healing couldn't rid of it entirely. _Damnit_. "What's your name, o saviour mine?"

She waited four beats of his heart to answer. "Mae-hun."

_Mae-hun,_ that was it.

"Mae-hun, thank you again." Her smile reached her dark eyes this time. He takes a drink of a proffered water skin and relishes the quenching cold just this once.

Alerted by a horn over the hill, he pulled himself to standing and wobbled, fighting himself for balance. Dizziness toyed with him in his plight and gravity taunted him this way and that. Pushing back his nausea, he worked out the major kinks, relieved at his carer for sparing him most of the pain. By the time his confidence was born in standing up straight, Ryndan had surveyed the rest of his shocked body. Armour had been removed in places- for access he assumed. The fading echo of his wounds still lingered, since battlefield medical aid was rudimentary at best, healers doing the minimal to get soldiers standing to conserve their own reserves. He oscillated between actual pain and ghost pain, a common by-product of field triage. His ribs protested every movement, his lungs on fire with anything more than a few words long. Tingling and aches danced a cruel jig as Ryndan tried to navigate his own physical bearings into functioning normality. Stretching his arms, Ryndan could see where the confetti of shrapnel from the crash had torn through him; superficially for the most part he surmised. Some still stung. Having sat at the back of the damned contraption must have saved him most of the impact. He hadn't had the want or need to seek the remnants of what wreckage he had been pulled from. His saviour's relief was enough proof that he probably didn't _want_ to.

He couldn't ask who else had walked away from the crash. Or more specifically; who _hadn't_. Not yet.

Blood- still wet- splattered across his padding and undershirt on his forearms. His legguards and codpiece were thankfully still in one piece, if a bit tight at the knees, but his breastplate lay nearby in a deplorable condition. Scratched, dented, straps snapped and in a despicable wear, had they been near civilisation he would have refused to go into combat without first repairing the thing or replacing it altogether. It seems that the item took the brunt of the impact and it explained the bruised feeling on his ribs, but even so, he couldn't wear it to battle. It was more likely to be a hindrance in this state. A new chestpiece would cost a hefty amount should he- _when_ he returned. Turning this way and that, he determined that it was useless. Grimly he'd have to ask Mae-hun if there was any spare going from the now-infirm. He located his weapon neatly presented on the ground beside his breastplate and strapped it back to his waist. He reached over his shoulder to start sorting his spaulders only to realise the scene that lay behind him. A fire crackled nearby and-

-and bodies lay covered in cloaks.

His hand lowered limply to his side.

The cruel mountain was a cold, sharp backdrop for them. It was extended from the same stone that surrounded and guarded Ymirheim and had provided a localised landing site for their teams just shy of the back entrance to Mor'drethar. That's why this place had been chosen. It was the blind spot between two major enemy focal points.

And now it was a graveyard of its own making.

Nearby wreckage- once-aflame and utterly totalled- cast the darkest of shadows over the still forms. There were two other healers walking between them, quietly whispering to the bodies. Oh- some were only wounded, not dead.

"How many?"

He heard her hesitation without turning. "There are two dead from your crash; the pilot and a gnome from the Expedition." Shameful relief filled him at the knowledge of Eoin's survival. "One chopper seemed to – to _explode_ mid-air. No one I've managed to speak with thinks a frostwyrm struck it, the small pack focussed on the Hammer who drew the brood's fire. Another crashed into the valley below. As far as I know… no one had been recovered from it yet."

She didn't need to say what that meant. It wasn't referred to as The Valley of Lost Hope for the fun of it.

"This was all from the choppers that took off in the last wave?"

"No- no, actually. One chopper malfunctioned when landing during the second wave. No fatal injuries- a couple of amputations perhaps, I have not checked. Another from the third- " she gestured to the pile of crushed metal. So that wasn't _his_ then?

"What of the Hammer?"

"Turned about to draw the brood away from the landing party. The cannonfire did serious damage, we saw two wyrms fall from here, but it disappeared into cloud cover and we have not heard it since."

"And no sign of The Skybreaker?"

"None yet. We have watchers on standby however, ready to flare either airship down to transport the hurt."

"Why not use a mage's portal?" Surely getting them to Dalaran would be priority if the Tournament was unreachable?

Mae-hun gave him a strained look. "Not allowed on this mission; orders from _your_ commander." Who was in charge of the whole thing with compliance from the Alliance Expedition and Horde Rangers as in protocol with the Martial Law. No portals on the mission. How had he missed that small print? And why? For the sole purpose of being unable to turn back. Ryndan couldn't even muster up surprise to hear of this now. So they were abandoned here until they had completed their goal-

Or until there was no one left to come and get.

"I'm afraid I'll need to hurry you along Captain. There was a signal for –"

"For gathering, yes. It seems I awoke just in time for the assault," he went to flash her a roguish grin and that's when Ryndan saw.

There must have been several bodies, but he was focused on one sheet.

"Captain, you really shouldn't go down there, you have to report to the hill if you are in fit enough condition."

His feet carried him away from the voice.

"Captain Fire-"

Why would Danila be there, kneeling on the cutting rock?

Who would he have to mourn with such melancholy?

" _Captain_ -"

How was it possible for someone to look so utterly _heartbroken_ clinging so tightly to a corner of a ratted cloak?

Who could be beneath that sheet?

He knew. Of course he knew. No one else could- would- have Danila's absolute devoted attention. There was only one person whose side Danila would never voluntarily leave. It was a simple game of elimination of their acquaintances really.

But it didn't stop him from drawing back the sheet just enough- and neither did Danila.

The dark, curled hair was matted with blood. Half of the face scraped off to the muscle and more. The bone was faded white. The skin was singed, the smell like burnt pork. The under-padding was blackened from smoke, the armour long-since removed. At least the eyes were closed. Ryndan didn't think he could bear to look at them.

He turned around and didn't look back.

* * *

Reuniting with his battalion was a short-lived affair as much planning was underway. Ryndan quickly found out that the majority of the route that had been scouted a few days prior had been destroyed. No one could say how or where, but a couple of dwarves commented that landslide and rockfall was the most likely answer.

So they had been stranded between a rock and a hard place with no way out of their own making. Down was too dangerous- the valley went on for miles and miles and if the swarm occupying it was any indication, it would be beyond suicide to even mention it as a viable escape route. North was too risky; Ymirheim was dismantled for the most part as a military unit and target, but there were still giant-dwellers ready to guard their homes. Up the mountain was more dangerous than down as it opened them up to higher risk of death and made them easier targets for any passing wyrms. South to the gate- to the target- was their only option.

Despite logic, Ryndan spitefully blamed Iskra for orchestrating that too.

In his temporary absence, Expeditioners had gone forth to carve and craft a pathway across the cliff side. The gate itself was in plain sight- stretching far and across much like its ominous cousin The Wrathgate. It broke the horizon like it cut the landscape- jaggedly and with hostility. Relatively, they were stationed perhaps four-fifths its height up the mountain, meaning their trek was going up, up and up. Reports coming back from the Expedition cited that their engineers and miners were nearly finished. They'd been going at it for nearly three hours.

So all that was left to do for everyone else- was to wait.

Ryndan had been welcomed with claps on the back and some 'good-to-see-yous'. Others looks fine and intact, some a bit battered from their own dramatic landings. The rest were shivering in groups, mulling and quiet. Apparently there had been some discord while he had been unconscious.

"When the ship flew awa'," Henrik had started, sitting very close to his still-shaken twin, "the protests were loud." He titled his head in the direction of the gathered COs. "Iskra had none of it, beat the shite outta some upstart punk fae the Allies and sent him limpin' wi' his tail 'tween his legs. Rest o' 'em died down fair quick after that." Ryndan's only response was to hum his acknowledgement. He briefly considered revealing the No-portals order from Iskra, but kept his mouth shut for the churning in his stomach. A biscuit appeared in front of Ryndan and he weakly waved it away, Henrik passing it instead to Brannar; one of the few draenei in their battalion and one of the biggest soldiers full stop.

"I thank you friend," he bowed his head and took a meagre nibble of the ration. Polite as he was, his face still twitched in disgruntlement. "Vat is it supposed to be?"

"Edible," Henrik replied.

Sergeant Riverwind laughed sparsely, translating the small exchange to Corporal Aniza beside her. Galed, one of the other new recruits, sat with them but his wide-eyes were focussed below on the valley, probably not even listening.

Other groups on the wide ledge were similarly spaced out, each sticking to their own. Some Crusade soldiers patrolled leisurely between, no doubt a forcible reminder to behave. The COs stood whispering conspiratorially, gesticulating and pointing to yonder and over by Mord'rethar. Deathweaver stood silently among them, nodding occasionally and muttering infrequently. His eyes roamed, tactical and detached. They studied not just the landscape, but details around him and Ryndan looked away when their eyes locked.

"Is that Edrikson's breastplate yer donning there?" The question came from Eoin, who was scrutinising Ryndan's now mismatched armour.

Ryndan answer was to vomit loudly.

"Motion sickness," he choked, wiping his mouth. They looked at him. "Delayed."

Yes, it was Edrikson's. With his own no better than scrap and Edrikson's made redundant, it had only made sense.

"Is he still out cold then?" Ryndan started. They didn't _know_ , he realised. They hadn't seen- of course they wouldn't have, they wouldn't have been near that area for the deceased, dying and disposed. 'Out of action' was what they would have been told.

Ryndan found he couldn't – "Yes."

Dezco had been silent, not speaking with anyone and no one pushed him. Why he remained mute and distant, Ryndan couldn't guess, the tauren was often contemplative. But at Ryndan's lie, his eyes flashed to the elf's. _He knew_. The fact that he did not protest the lie held a guilty weight that Dezco understood Ryndan's need for silence. Grief had no place with soldiers who had no outlet yet. Cold and tactical. Just like a Death Knight.

Ryndan spat out the bile in his mouth.

"Bugger. Though might be fur the best, keeps Danila outta the way after all," Eoin sighed sitting back. A muted murmur of agreement went round. Brannar had finished his ration and was now studying Mor'drethar behind them. twins stared at the sky and ground alternatively and Ryndan felt more of himself drain away with each look of despair he spied.

The Horde freelancers had banded together in some rabblish group, passing around a couple of flasks. The few Alliance freelancers milled a bit more idly. The Rangers- Ryndan started when he realised he had just remembered Feyen- were checking and double- and triple-checking equipment in the epitome of efficiency. Ryndan spotted Feyen and caught her eye, giving a brief relieved nod. He received a tight, wan smile in return.

Then the Expeditioners returned to say they could start crossing up to Mor'drethar.


End file.
